Psychosis
by Tendo Rei
Summary: There is something worse than insanity in Gotham tonight. Final chapter added.
1. Pschosis

**Psychosis**

_Disclaimer: I don't own batman, this ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around._

Skidding blindly around the corner, Jervis Tetch was nearly dead-ended by one of the myriads of random stacks of wooden crates that seemed to breed exponentially in back alleys. He managed to save himself by vaulting clumsily over a trashcan, landing wrong and turning his ankle. Swearing breathily, he stood partially and searched the shadows for signs of movement. He could never be sure how far away It was, It had nearly caught him at the last corner when he thought he was home safe. Seeing nothing, he hobbled to a nearby alcove between two buildings and examined his new injury.

Swelling, to be sure, but he couldn't tell if it was sprained or twisted. Either way, he knew he was as good as dead. He had barely been making it unharmed, now he had no hope of outrunning It, if indeed he was. He had a sneaking suspicion that It was just toying with him, though it had seemed all business earlier when…

"_Oh my god_!"

"_What in the name of William Wilson is that_?"

When it…

"_It's broken the door_!"

"_Guards_!"

it had gotten…

"_It's still coming! Run, Tetch!_"

"_But J_-"

"_I said run_!"

But no time to think of that now! He shook his head and stood up. He had been taking the wrong course of action. Athletics in general were never his forte. But he had always been good at escapes. What to do? He could make his way to the nearest public area and summon the police…but no, that would take too long. And there was no guarantee they could save him from the creature, or even see It before it was too late. What to do…

Of course! He brightened considerably. He was always good at poking His nose where it had no business, and once he was with Him, the thing wouldn't dare show its fa-…Itself. Show Itself. He could convince him something extremely out of the ordinary had happened, he could get protection…but how to summon him?

A crash from the alley two down from him scattered Jervis's thoughts to the wind. He limped away as rapidly as he could, bracing himself on the wall with one arm. The other hurriedly searched about his coat pockets, his hat had been lost ages ago in the flight from the warehouse.

Aha! He found it! A combination smoke-bomb and fear toxin spreader. Technically one of Scarecrow's devices, but it would do in a pinch. Quickly he hobbled to a likely place and tossed it over a wall, barely pausing to do so. In his compromised state, he had to keep moving, he had to-

"**_Working a little late tonight, aren't we_**?"

What luck! O frabjous day, callou callay! For once he was glad to see the shadows melt into a caped and cowled form, considering they didn't form anything else. Jervis, relieved, was still cautious. This was a man who put him away time and time again. It would do him well to play the victim.

With a strained but ingratiating smile, he hobbled toward the Batman, one hand out, the other still bracing his leg.

"Sometimes the night is when I do my best thinking. However, to–night hasn't been very constructive for me, and I daresay it's been even less for a mutual acquaintance."

"**_Spill Tetch_**." Direct as ever. "**_How is it I find you lobbing something definitely not trash into someone's backyard, when just a month ago you got out on parole_**?"

Tetch's eyes widened in mock surprise. "That long? How time does _fly_ when you're having fun–and obeying the law of course." His mouth split into a mere shadow of his mad grin. "I would not even be seeing you tonight, had unforeseen developments forced me here, and daresay you would like to know what they were, hmm?"

"**_Me, Bullock, Gordon_**," his tone was nonchalant. "**_Whichever. You'll spill eventually_**." He made a move for the injured man.

"Wait, wait!" Jervis could feel panic beginning at the tips of his toes. He hade to make him listen, he had to know…

"**_I'm waiting_**."

Jervis mopped his face with a sleeve. "Gotham chemicals went up earlier didn't it? You saw it, didn't you? It lit up the sky!"

"**_And_**?"

God, it was like conversing with a wall!

"But it didn't burn, per se, not in the normal manner. Eyewitnesses say it went up all at once. I was there, I saw it happen!"

"**_That was fifteen minutes ago, Tetch_**." The shadow moved forward a little more. "**_You made great time for a cripple_**."

"I didn't sustain this until a moment ago, would you please _listen_?" the early stages of hysteria were making him shrill.

"I was there before it started, me and an-ahem-" he reddened slightly. "aqquantence were there. It was our base of operations. And that was no ordinary fire. I can't tell you exactly how it happened, but I can tell you what was probably behind it. Only promise me one thing!"

"**_What's that_**?"

"Protection!"

"**_All right, Tetch. We've got a nice private cell down in_**-"

"Nononono! It can't be there, It can follow me there! It has to be somewhere more secure than that!"

Batman sighed. "**_Meaning_**?"

Jervis all but ran forward and grasped the edges of his cape.

"Take me with you! Take me somewhere secure, somewhere out of the city! Or, I promise you, both of us will end up exactly like Jonathon Crane!"

There. It was out.

"**_What does Crane have to do with_**-"

"Protect me and I'll tell you."

The dark night shrugged in defeat. He didn't have time to "convince" Tetch into telling the truth, if it had to be secure he could manage just that. He could knock Tetch out and take him to the minor stronghold in the batcave, so long as Tetch came unarmed.

"**_Does that coat have pockets_**?"

"Y-yes, why?"

"**_Empty them_**."

Jervis did him one better. He dumped the coat on the ground. Batman blinked. He was clad only in Arkham-issue pajama bottoms, a blue so stiflingly tranquil elephants would have trouble keeping their eyes open, and a cotton tee-shirt. Tetch's small frame looked even more fragile than it normally did, he looked like a little boy shivering with cold and exertion.

"**_Aren't you_**-"

"Comfort does not matter, my dear boy, flight does. We need to be away from here five minutes ago."

Batman did something he did not very often do. He blinked.

"**_N…no, that's all right. You can wear the coat. Just keep your hands where I can see them in the car_**."

While Tetch gratefully retrieved his coat, Batman turned and hit the homing mechanism; he had left his car a few alleys back, and he didn't feel like backtracking tonight. Something in Tetch's demeanor subtly disturbed him, but he couldn't quite name it yet.

When he was assisting the Hatter into the car a moment later, Tetch did another strange thing. He turned to the general direction from which he came, eyes shining brightly.

"_Good-bye_." He murmured in a broken tone, then ducked his head inside the batmobile. Batman sighed and clenched his molars. This was not going to be an early night, he knew. Godammit, why wasn't it ever simple and easy? Other cities got bank robbers, he got fruits in lime overcoats.

As the drove off, neither looked at the nearby shadow of a mangled car. Which was natural. The old jalopy had nothing that would interest either of them. And that nothing was watching their departure with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. This thing, which currently matched the shadow of the car, did not have a means of verbal communication. Not in this form, anyway. But as they rounded a corner, It raised what could be called on other things a head, and watched them without eyes.

It was an unknown blessing that they hadn't seen it, acknowledgement of It's presence brought about immediate demise, as the other man earlier had found out. He had only seen It the second It got him, and then it was only a glimpse. It had been savoring the man's last rictus of horror, and stroked the part of its body that was digesting him smoothly with stray bits of matter.

It was as happy as things like It can get. It had fed more in the past few days that it usually did in a year. And the best part was that It would go unnoticed for far longer than in any sane city. It was excited, it anticipated a joining soon, it had gone so long without one.

And this thing, which had no voice, spoke for the first time since arriving.

"Well." It said. "Well, well."

_Author's Note: it gets better in the second chapter, I promise! and please don't ask me what the hatter was doing in his underwear._


	2. T'was Brillig

Chapter 2: T'was Brillig...

* * *

As the batmobile sped down back roads, Jervis Tetch was either disinclined to look at or just disinterested in the scenery speeding by, he looked solemnly at his feet like a boy outside the principal's office. He had given him his silence for most of the ride, to make him comfortable, now Batman wanted him to talk.

"**_What about Crane_**?"

"I'll tell thee all I can, there's little to relate."

Aw crap. Back to nonsense again.

"The Jabberwocky crushed his head, the rest of him, It ate."

He turned slowly to look at Tetch, who regarded him with innocent curiosity.

"What, too long? I can make other rhymes, there's a wealth of expressions available to me."

"**_But you just_**-"

"What do you _want_ me to say? It sectioned Jonathan Crane like a chicken and ate the best parts?! **_I_** didn't get a clear look at It! I was running away and it was eating Jonathan and I _was running **away**_." his voice dropped morosely and Batman watched as he put his head in his hands.

A few minutes of uncomfortable silence followed.

"The way that thing eats," Tetch continued at last, "from what little I saw, breaks every law of physics set down by our forefathers. You want to know if it ate Jonathan? It didn't. It _destroyed_ him, it disintegrated him, and now it's out there looking for more…"

* * *

Detective Endcott had had enough of this. Enough of late nights in back alleys, enough of boozy near-romances with painted jezebels, frails who were about as frail as a steel girder, and nowhere near as strait. Most of all, he had had it with this stinkin', lousy, dutch oven full o' pig crap they called a city.

It was around nine and he was on a routine tail job. A good-looking betty named Veronica had wafted up to his office, reeking of French perfume and old money, claiming the man she'd married had gone to the rough side of things, and that she wanted a one-way ticket to splitsville. For a grant a day plus expenses, he had drank a little, roughed up a small-timer, drank a little more, gotten roughed up by some so-called "honest cops", and had finally decided to go belly-up in a bathtub of gin before he had to crawl out from under his rock for another day.

So he had spent the last two hours in MacReady's pub, sorta like a bar only they didn't feel the need for such things as lights or sanitation, trying to drink himself into comfortable enough stupor before lurching home and landing on his head. He had proof now that the so-called wifey wasn't what she claimed, hell, she wasn't even _married_ to the sucker, can you beat that? He was trying to nerve himself up before confronting her, and the scene that would inevitably follow. She'd flash some teeth, pretend to beg coyly then whip a piece out of somewhere he didn't want to see, and then coyly try to introduce the back of his head to the wall. He needed quite a bit of liquid courage for this, so he had taken his time, trying to stay out of trouble.

Only, in this city, trouble comes in all shapes and sizes. This one arrived in what she probably thought was an hourglass shape, but Endcott could tell that she had probably stuffed a few more grains in the upper half. Her nails were black, her eyes were green glass, and her dye-job was red-ish. He could tell she was trouble the minute she swished into MacReady's, and not the kind of trouble he had fun with. With a voice like tin plates she ordered "whatever has vodka in it", had spotted him trying to melt into the fern, and had thumped down beside him, giving him a toothy "Hel-_lo._"

This one was dressed Veronica Lake meets Vampira, though it was hard to imagine either of those broads coming right up to a guy in a bar and playing "dangerous". He hated it when they tried "gutsy/sexy". They usually came off as neither, and when they tried to throw cuteness in he had to put two fingers in his throat and implore his gorge 'down, down boy'. This one purred to him,

"_I'm looking to shake this town up_."

Endcott didn't doubt she was. He just wondered why the hell she was talking to _him._ In a city so blessed with an overabundance of colorful characters, why a poor private dick? He figured she got her signals mixed, and really meant it for the shady figure at the end of the bar in standard trench coat and slouch hat.

"Town's already had enough shaking going on; why don't you try a cleaner city? I hear Metropolis is nice this time of year."

He knew it was a mistake to try and discourage her as he saw her take a deep breath and immediately looked down in distaste.

"Well you see I'm the heiress of a fortune only my uncle made a deal with a supervillain to kill my father and mother and my pony-"

Gettin' out of town didn't seem so gutless no more, maybe he could go into retail…

"-and I've had to grow up poor with only my pet cat Lestat for company and life has been so hard I really can't tell good from evil-"

Or maybe he could get a job somewhere peaceful, Kinoshita had gotten a lot from his legal settlement from a few cases ago, he now had a gardening service that maybe had some grunt jobs open…

"-and I moved here to try and find what villain did it and make them pay and find my uncle and make him give me the fortune-"

Or maybe he could just crawl down a manhole and live in the sewers like a mutant, eating roaches and frightening the day-walkers…

"-and I wanted to teamup with a hunky villain. Know any?" she finished breathlessly. Endcott took a few seconds to come out of his conversational stupor, and decided to buy himself a little time by lighting a cigar and then maybe cutting an escape though the men's room.

"Not close personal, no, but if you look over yonder-"

"_You bring me into this I'll kill you_." The slouching figure hissed sotto voce. Endcott tried to recover by complicated maneuver, he simultaneously signaled MacReady for another drink, coughed to avoid ending the fatal sentence, and tried to strike a match at the same time.

Of course it didn't work, the pseudo-redhead stood up with a squeal, MacReady ducked behind the bar for some unknown reason, and the match snapped off at a point close to his fingers and landed on the haphazard filth that formed the floor. Endcott swooped down to retrieve it, and it was probably this that saved his life.

Something big and only partially solid sailed past where his head had been only a split-second ago, and went right through the dame with a big "splorch". Endcott was no more prone to making up onomatopoeias as the next shamus, but that was the only word that described that sound accurately enough. The redhead registered only mild shock and some awe, before she collapsed wetly to the ground as the thing pulled out of her.

Endcott stared at her and sucked air over his teeth; dammit, he would see that one in his nightmares for a while to come. He reared up to try to get a glimpse of what it was, not the smartest course of action, but Endcott knew that there was no way that exit wound came from a gun.

He straightened up simultaneously with MacReady, who had been using his time constructively to find his pump-action.

"Endcott, down!" the rotund little barkeep flicked the safety catch as Endcott did a roll, landing hard on his shoulder while everything seemed to happen at once. MacReady fired, the sound mingling with Mr. Cloak-and-dagger diving out the window, the shot grazing the air by Endcott's left ear.

Endcott managed to avoid landing completely on his face, even while pulling out his piece, a sleek little Italian job he took off an old client. He managed to rotate back to a half-sitting position and get off a few quick ones before he realized that bullets have no effect on something as insubstantial as a shadow. He heard MacReady swear as he launched himself again, to the side this time, and managed to avoid the mass pushing near-solidly past him. However, the sprinkler system was completely solid, and as the mass of the thing lodged in the upper-right corner it broke off a piece which in turn speared Endcott right through the abdomen.

He grasped it and coughed, it was about all he could do. Damn this city, where he'd never had even a moment's quiet, and damn the women, they were never classy enough not to get killed. And last of all, damn him, for risking his neck over something that sure wasn't worth it…

"Endcott!" MacReady called from his "brace" position behind the counter. "Endcott?"

No answer.

"I'm going for the badge, Endcott, you hang easy here for a minute, okay?" MacReady crawled as low to the ground as his stomach would let him. He made a low dash for the front door and made it, his shiny new loafers making muted splashing sounds on the wet streets.

Inside his pub, the creature touched Endcott's head with a vaguely manlike hand. Endcott's breath was rasping wetly, his eyes were glazed over and he had a funny little smile on his face. It wasn't bitter like his other fly-by-night deals, but was strangely triumphant, it looked unreal on his alcohol-dilapidated face. He tried to speak, coughed wetly with a few false starts, and then was successful.

"…g'tcha." He chuckled for a beat that lapsed into red coughing again. "…we gotcha now, you …smnva'bitch!" he hacked again from the effort.

"…y-y'killed a shamus, big misssstake…" more coughing. "now no one's gonna…let it lie…" one very large hack. "y'got inta cop'sh terriritory…y…shouldna…done tha'…"

The thing gave one whole-body sniff before giving him up as dead, and not worth its time. The one that had dove out the widow had left a sizable trail, blood signature was easiest to follow, but it had been too strong to begin with, and the creature couldn't manage the effort of both tracking it down and engaging it. Besides, it had a schedule to go by. It had a meeting in fifteen hours, then it was free. Perhaps it would strengthen itself with one of the caged ones before it took on another free-roamer. The time before had been pure luck, the other one had gotten away temporarily, it had been rescued while it was waiting for the prey to weaken.

But no matter. It was patient, as these things go, and it had already eaten once. Just the meeting to get through and then to resume hunting. There was a very large morsel that sent out a karmic signature like a bonfire, It hoped to feed on it soon.

"…Where am I?"

Endcott was cold, and he had sort of a migraine. Also, he couldn't quite remember what had happened. The bar seemed to have gone black-and-white on him, and he was feeling a little like Bogie. Dead. But then she came in, and he sucked air over his teeth.

Here, finally, was one classy dame. She didn't have minks dripping from her shoulders like the rich ones did, and she didn't smell like sweat and compromise like the cheapies. She disdainfully stepped over a laying figure, and upon seeing Endcott her eyes lit up like fireworks. He remembered his manners and swept his weather-beaten Stetson off his head.

"How do you do, ma'am." Ma'am? He hadn't called a woman that in…ever. She just took it in stride and walked over to him, her hips doing a very flattering impression of a pendulum. She was wearing a dark evening dress of a style he liked, out-of-fashion, and she smelled clean. Her hair was soft and straight down her back, but Endcott couldn't tell exactly whether it was black or brown. Didn't matter.

"If y'don't mind my askin', what's a fine woman like you doing in a gin-joint like this?"

"_Looking for you, of course_." Her answer sent shivers down his spine, in more ways than one. Without even realizing it, he took her hand and was walking out of the bar with her, graciously helping her over his fallen corpse. He hesitated as the door opened, there seemed to be only a tunnel of light beyond and not the usual cityscape, but then she smiled at him and he felt like a million bucks, and the city was no longer important. He stepped out with her, her hand unnaturally cool and dry in his, and didn't look back.

"Endcott, David R. Endcott. Private Detective. DOA."

MacReady looked on in the background as they scraped the shamus's body from his last case, turning away so he didn't have to see the grisly smile on his face. He turned instead to the two coats running the whole shindig, a fatass and a dignified old graybeard with hair like a soft-serve cone.

"I tell ya', one minute everything's copasetic, the next, blooey! That wasn't no super soldier, neither," as he had seen one of the white coats put that down a second ago. "That thing didn't have no body, it was kinda just hangin' there. Anyway, if it was one of them indust'rial jobs, how come it survived two shotgun blasts and Endcott's piece? It doesn't make any sense!"

"We'll call you if we need any further information from you, Mister-"

"MacReady, Lloyd MacReady. Listen, you call me if you can do anything here, I just lost my best customer and my ambiance in one day, who's gonna help pay for it?"

"We'll call you." The weary commissioner signaled to Bullock, who ushered out the proprietor with a business card. Gordon took a few for a smoke before getting into the car, Bullock watching with bemusement.

"A man can't make a decent living anymore." he muttered, clicking his seatbelt home. Bullock let out a raw laugh.

"You said something there, Commish'. Man can't even get soused without blowing out the back of his head in a big, red sneeze."

Gordon fiddled with his mustache a moment in the rearview, then backed out of the parking space, nearly being clipped by a Benz who honked as if it was their fault. Bullock noticed his griped tighten minutely on the steering wheel; something got to Gordon and it wasn't just the smokehouse free-for-all in the bar.

As they made the long drive back to HQ, bullock counted the potholes in the road, waiting for Gordon to say it.

"I think we should consult our vigilante friend on this."

Bullock balled up a candy wrapper and threw it out the window. "Whatever you say, Commish."

"I mean that Harvey, he's got expertise in areas we can't even touch. The lab guys are gonna go over them, but I know they're not going to find anything, not a print."

"Why's that?"

"Because." Gordon concentrated on the wipers for a moment. "Because I've been on the force for over thirty years and I've never seen injuries like that."

"Huh. Tell me about it. Gal looked like cherry cobbler." He considered for a moment. "More solid chunks though."

"I know." Gordon's eyes were steely. "The thing nearly took her apart. The barkeep said he didn't get a clear look at it, it was moving too fast. The only witness who could've told us-"

"-is dead, yeah, I know. Call him. let's hope he's not too busy tonight, hmm?"

Gordon was silent all the way back to the precinct.

* * *

Author's Note: sorry I misspelled Crane's first name in the first chapter, my spellchecker doesn't pick these things up. more to come as we enter the batcave! 


	3. And Behold a Great Red Dragon

Chapter 3: And behold a Great Red Dragon...

* * *

Jervis Tetch was asleep by the time they reached the bat cave, opening one eye blearily as they came to a stop. His face only registered numb resignation, Batman could tell he was still in a mild state of shock. He wiped one eye haphazardly with a fist, stretched, and stiffly got out. 

While Batman began the security lockdowns Tetch just stood there, scratching his head, looking blankly at nothing. He didn't react when Batman took his arm and led him to the secure room, he didn't even shiver as he padded over cold metal in his bare feet. He sat down in the chair quietly as Batman turned to get him water from the cooler, and when he turned back Tetch had begun crying. Not normal crying either, he still stared off into the distance but with a somewhat accusing look while tears made little snail-trails down his face.

Batman sighed. He didn't want to feel sorry for Tetch, when he was sorry for them it was always harder afterwards when he had to bring them in. But- he caught himself before finishing the thought that maybe this time, he wouldn't be taking the Hatter in.

"**_Here_**." He was somewhat embarrassed about intruding on what was probably a private moment. Tetch merely accepted the cup and sat there, not drinking.

"**_You mind telling me what happened tonight_**?"

"I'm not entirely sure I know where to begin." Tetch replied in a faraway tone.

"**_Begin at the beginning and when you get to the end, stop_**."

Tetch turned and gave him a weak smile. Batman knew he would have to humor him this time to get all the details. Something had shaken him, badly, and he had retreated to his comfort zone. Which was Victorian nonsense. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes swiveling to a point somewhere on the ceiling.

"Earlier this evening," he began, "The Scarecrow and I had procured a neglected warehouse of Gotham chemical as our base of operations…"

"**_What was that plan this time_**?"

Tetch smiled wearily. "It matters not. Jonathan and I were not working at the time of the attack."

Batman grunted. "**_I assumed so, I doubt you plan crimes in your nightclothes_**."

"Rightly so, you see, he and I had just settled down for an intellectual discussion when Jonathan, who was facing the outside window, saw movement."

"**_Anything definite_**?"

"No, just movement he said, or maybe the suggestion of movement. What first raised the alarm was the fact that it had gotten past the temporary security system we had set up, which is a feat in itself I assure you. By the time we actually got a glimpse of the thing, it was far too late."

"**_How did you escape_**?"

The Hatter sighed and shifted in his seat.

"It came through the western wall and I dove out the window, Jonathan stayed behind to try and destroy it."

"**_He wasn't successful_**?"

The hatters eyes shone. "No."

"**_One thing bothers me, Tetch. Why would Crane stay behind? He was never one for random acts of bravery, he could easily have gone with you_**-"

"But that _thing_ would have followed, don't you see? You're not the only one capable of valor, beamish boy."

"**_Yes, but why…for you_**…"

"Why defend me instead of saving his own ass, you mean?" The Hatter gave a bitter laugh. "I wonder why you're touted as a great detective, you can't see past your own nose."

"**_Tetch, what do you_**-" and then the pieces fell into place. Tetch's odd behavior. His insistent use of first names. His displays of remorse.

"You…you two were…"

"Surprised?" Tetch blew his nose on a sleeve. "I have no doubt that you are. Steadfast citizen, you can rest easy now when I'm put away, knowing that you have done the right thing. People like me don't belong in clean society."

"**_But Tetch, that's_**-"

"Disgusting?" Tetch smiled wryly at him.

"**_That wasn't the word I was looking for_**."

"Wrong? Indecent? Immoral?"

"**_I was going to say disturbing_**."

"Ah." Tetch had that guarded look now. "I can't really win, can I? I can't love someone of their own volition, I can't force anyone to love me, what do you want me to do? Wave at everyone from a respectable distance?"

"**_That's not what I_**-"

"And that's an interesting viewpoint, coming from a man who dresses in a costume to catch criminals. What, was day-to-day life not theatrical enough for you?"

"**_Tetch_**!"

He stopped, and a look of strong resentment came over his face.

"I know-" he began and stopped to take a dry swallow. "I know the other reasons for your concern. That the Scarecrow is just using me. that this will end up as it has a thousand times before. But I have already thought about that. And whatever happens…"

He wiped his eyes. "Whatever happens, it was my mistake to make."

Batman felt uncomfortable, and a little dirty. He tried to avoid probing into a criminal's surreal mindscape as much as he could. He didn't know what scared him more, the fact that they based their atrocities on human feelings, or the fact that sometimes when he did look inside, he felt sympathy for them.

The Hatter was one of those rare cases, more often than not Batman felt pity mingled with his usual disgust. Perhaps it was the fact that Tetch took his raison d'être from a children's book, or perhaps it was how some of his crimes stemmed from his loneliness. Batman had only felt sorrier for one other criminal, and that had been the Ventriloquist.

Part of his difficulty in dealing with them was rooted in the fact that he couldn't really help them, just stop them from time to time. That he might just be perpetuating a cycle of violence had crossed his mind, and he had never really found any evidence to the contrary. No one ever got better in this city, and people left that asylum worse than they came in. He wondered if he wasn't really just the flipside of them, just that he had taken a different approach to expressing himself, but inside he was just like they were.

When you look into the abyss…

"**_Listen_**." He told the Hatter. "**_Whatever you do in your private life, so long as it doesn't hurt anybody, is none of my business_**."

"How _generous_."

"**_If that's all the information you can give me, for now that's fine. I have other business to attend to, so I'm going to leave you here. I trust you not to make any escape attempt, because you are not really being held here. Anytime you want to go, you can go_**."

"Straight to the asylum."

"**_In so many words, yes. I'll be back in the afternoon to check on you, do you want anything for now_**?"

"You mean like a book?"

_**Of course.**_

"No, thank you, I need to be alone with my thoughts."

That was peculiar. But he had been peculiar all day. Why change now?

"**_I'll see you later, then_**."

As he door slid shut behind him, he could just hear the madman mutter-

"-_and very gladly will I drink,_

_Your honor's noble health_."

* * *

Bruce puzzled over it in the morning, when hanging into his Armani suit and tie. The Hatter's normal speech patterns were nearly nowhere in evidence, he had sounded saner than he ever was. Whatever scared him, he decided while doing a hangman's knot, disrupted his normal thinking patterns temporarily. It would probably be back to tea and mushrooms by the time he got back.

But for now, he had the real world to puzzle out.

His first and only meeting that drizzly day came from an offshore businessman, of an ethnicity his secretary had been very vague on. He still couldn't quite tell when he met the man; his smooth, walnut colored face and dark hair betrayed nothing of their origin. His eyes were something, though. A zealot's eyes; hard and dark and dead. He was almost unnaturally clean-cut, the smooth lines of his ash gray suit could have been cut from solid rock, though his body was neither blocky nor lean. He met Bruce with a firm handshake and a vague business greeting. He was average from every possible angle, not a thread out of place.

So why did it make Bruce sick inside to talk to him?

"Wayne, Bruce Wayne." He used his practiced smile that was both engaging and nonthreatening. "I hear you're very interested in doing business, Mr.…"

"Nihil." The man's face broke into a grin so even it was sickening. "Nihil Ibi, and aren't we all?"

Bruce had to restrain a grimace when the man's fingertips brushed his, just by minor contact he could tell what his handshake would be. Cool, firm, and fleeting. The man did not surprise him.

"Nihil? Very interesting, whereabouts are you from?"

The man lowered his hand and kept his all too eager eye contact with Bruce.

"Oh, here and there… but I am very excited about coming here, I hear it's a very colorful city."

Even up here on the fortieth floor, Bruce heard the screech of metal on asphalt and the ensuing siren. He gritted his teeth.

"Colorful doesn't _begin_ to describe it."

"Even so, even so."

"and what exactly were you interested in with Wayne enterprises?" he nervously adjusted his own Moroccan red tie. Even the man's tie was unnerving him. It was a cool blue patterned with a slightly darker shade of blue so faint whatever it was swam in and out of focus; the whole effect was that of looking at a Necker cube.

The man's grin widened, almost into a leer.

"Well, my primary interest is in the mental facilities you have here, one in particular."

"Personal or academic?"

The man gave out a little chuckle like dry autumn leaves.

"Actually, it's neither. One of my major companies is a security contractor, they would be very interested to hear about what's inside 'Ark-ham'."

"Really?" his eyebrows went up and out to show interest, while all the while he was thinking. "_One? **One** of my major companies_?"

"We-ell, yes. Perhaps a guided tour…?"

Bruce had kept one eye at the window, and when he saw the projected Rorschach that was his signal he unconsciously relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Mr.-"

"Nil, please."

"Yes, Nil, I have very pressing business to attend to, and if it's possible, could we perhaps schedule a later-"

To his embarrassment, the man took his hand in two of his own and shook vigorously.

"Oh no, Mr. Wayne, just meeting you now was more than expected. I shall maybe return at a later time, when you are not so busy, yeah? When we have more time to talk…"

Nothing happened for a few moments. Ibi continued shaking his hand zealously while Bruce struggled valiantly for something more polite than-

"Well, goodbye, you can let go of me now!"

But his hand was dropped as suddenly as it was picked up, and the man merely looked at Bruce, his eyes trained not on his face, but on a point just beyond his left ear.

"Well," he began uncomfortably, but Ibi made no movement. "Well, I'll see you when I see you."

He somewhat awkwardly strode away, looking with his peripheral vision at Ibi when he got to the elevator. He hadn't budged, and still looked at Bruce with an strangely expectant look, then the elevator cut his face out.

* * *

Gordon was chain-smoking by the time he got there, and Bullock was leaning too casually against a wall.

"**_Anything_**?"

"We had a little incident downtown tonight, around nine thirty-five in the evening."

Hatter had been in his car, on the way to safety. "**_And_**?"

"Double homicide, pretty nasty business. Huge…chunks, taken out of the woman, guy was skewered by some shoddy masonry." He made a face. "You think you see it all in this town…"

This was no time to get reminiscent. "**_The killer got away_**?"

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's the _thing_. The killer got away, but we're looking for a witness. The bartender who witnessed the killings is a little…unreliable, couldn't give an accurate description of the murders. The killer left nothing, no prints, no skin flakes, no stray atoms, even the chunk it took out of the lady can't be found. And even in this day and age, that's a pretty hard thing to hide."

"**_Who're we looking for_**?"

"We finally got a DNA match from a shard of window glass that nicked him. It's 'Killer Croc' Waylon Jones, out on parole."

"**_Why doesn't that surprise me_**?"

"He's hiding pretty well this time, too; he must be keeping to the sewers mostly, not coming out in daylight. Usually he gives us a little tip-off that he's out, a little physical brutality, just to say hi."

"**_Nice of him_**."

Gordon dropped the spent butt onto the rooftop, grinding it in with his heel, and had another one out almost immediately. "And on top of that, we have the fire in Gotham chemicals to deal with."

His throat constricted. "**_Bodies_**?"

Gordon sighed. "Well, we haven't seen much of anything, yet. I'll probably let you know."

"**_Good_**."

"So, I guess I'll see you…" there was one less shadow. One of the remaining ones peeled away from the wall.

"We done, commish?"

"Don't start with me, Harvey."

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm not knocking the big guy, I mean, who knows how the loonies think better than one of them?"

"Harvey-"

"I know, commish. It's just sometimes… I know you think that too."

Gordon didn't say anything, he just stared out on the city while his mustache and forgotten cigarette were made sodden by the downpour.

* * *

"**_Feeling better, Tetch_**?"

"Much better, how kind of you to ask."

"**_I was wondering_**-"

"You want to take me back to the scene of the crime?"

"**_No. I wanted to know if there was anyone else involved in your operation_**."

"you mean like one of the famous 'rogue gallery' cads? No. We were simply going to raise money this time around, we found an offshore contractor willing to deal."

"**_And that all fell through_**?"

Tetch's forehead wrinkled in thought. "No, actually. We were scheduled to meet him today, at the warehouse."

Wheels were beginning to turn.

"**_You know, Tetch, I can't keep you here forever_**."

"Yes, yes, I know, you've outlived your usefulness, now off with you to the asylum, daddy's busy."

Conversation was getting unsettling again.

"**_I do want to take you to the crime scene, but later. The police are there and I'd rather they finish their investigation first_**."

"It's just as well. After all, what do we have but time?"

And on a wet street behind several abandoned apartment buildings, the scooped out shell of Killer Croc's head hit the pavement with a hollow thud.

* * *

_Author's note: Hot damn! Compared to the others, this chapter was about as easy to get out as a kidney stone! It took awhile because the conversations were not going the way I wanted them to, especially between the Hatter and Batman. You'll notice I didn't use a lot of wonderland-isms in his speech. It's hard to write dialogue with those, although I did use part of "the Aged, aged man", I always liked that chapter of the book. The first two villains I ever really felt sympathetic for were, of course, the Hatter and Ventriloquist. The Hatter was far easier to be sympathetic to in the cartoon, the comic incarnation is a little more bloodthirsty, but his loneliness is still a driving factor. I think this is the longest author's note I've ever written…one more thing. Thanks to all those who reviewed, and I didn't even have to beg! Sorry I'm late, guys! See you in the next chapter!_


	4. The Conqueror Worm

Chapter 4: The Conqueror Worm

In a back alley, near a block of flats that have been unoccupied nearly a decade, something watches and waits…

Compared to any regular interaction between the two, the conversation between the Hatter and the Dark Knight was positively serene.

Nevertheless there were sticking points…

"…and explain to me just _how_ dressing up in a costume and hunting criminals outside the jurisdiction of the law is "perfectly sane"."

"**_For one, I did not say "perfectly"; and for another, I think Gotham can afford my little sanity if I keep people like you off the streets_**."

"Oh, _ha_, you have made the streets of Gotham so very _much_ safer, putting us in a mental facility with slim to nil regulations and a revolving door. What you do is entirely uphill, a Sisyphean exercise that only keeps people like us off the streets for a moment! You would be better off letting _us_ run free and letting the rest of society deal with it."

Batman gritted his teeth. "**_Letting someone like you walk the streets uninhibited would be like throwing a lit match onto a gunpowder factory. You don't deserve it_**. _They **don't deserve it**_."

Tetch glanced at him loftily from the corner of his eyes. "But the insane are people too."

Hands gloved in black gripped the steering wheel tighter. "**_But I don't want to live among insane people_**!"

Hatter grinned at him jovially, showing a newly-gone incisor. "Oh, you can't help that. We're all insane here. I'm insane. You're insane."

"**_How do you know I'm insane_**?"

The Hatter looked thoughtful

"You must be," he concluded. "Or you wouldn't have come here."

Batman sighed.

"**_You know that's cyclical reasoning, don't you Tetch_**?"

His guest drew his eyebrows together indignantly. "Well, what do you call your raison d'être? What you do is the very definition of insanity, you repeat the same actions and expect a variant result."

"**_I never said I was 100_**."

"Well." Tetch settled down into his seat. "You act as if you're better than all of us. You aren't very."

"**_When you said 'us', were you including Scarecrow_**?"

His eyes filled. "I hate you."

They drove on in uncomfortable silence for some time.

Finally:

"**_I know whatever happened between the two of you is none of my business_**…"

"That's right." He blinked. "But I suppose that's not going to stop you."

"**_I realize this is more idle curiosity than anything else, but how did he_**…"

_Jervis, could you come here a moment?_

The Hatter blinked. "What?"

"**_I was wondering_**-"

_-ing if you would help me with something, an experiment. What? Oh, no, no ,no; it's not dangerous. Not the slightest bit._

"-**_got you to even talk to him, I mean_**-"

"I-I'm sorry, I missed the question."

_just lie down…_

"**_Who initiated the relationship, him or you_**?"

_I wanted to ask you a few questions, Jervis._

He blinked his eyes closed and rubbed hard. "I…I believe it was…him."

_You don't have any friends at all, do you?_

"**_And in the relationship itself, he_**-"

_No need to get emotional, it was just a statement of fact. _

"It was mostly 50/50. I was more in need of companionship than anything else."

_Yet you crave closeness, don't you? You are denied something that you require with the very core of your being._

The Hatter gulped, why was his throat suddenly dry?

"**_And yet you yourself are aware that this could just be another ploy, the scarecrow could just be using you as a potential fall guy?_**"

_We both know what it is to be denied something we need very much…here, why don't you wipe your eyes? Use mine._

The Hatter moistened his lower lip with his tongue. "Of course. Possibly more than anyone."

_You and I are not dissimilar, I think…now, Jervis, you know neither of us really like being laughed at, if you don't stop I'll have to come over there and stop you myself…_

Even now as the memory touched him, Tetch shivered. "_Jervis. He called me Jervis_."

_You know what it's like to feel the harsh, abrasive laughter of others where you are most vulnerable, don't you? You know what it's like to be cut in soft places by the sharp, piercing sound of amusement._

"_**And yet you allowed it**?"_

_Don't you?_

A ghost of a smile graced Tetch's lips. "'Allowed' is a fairly weak word. Try grasped at, clung to, clasped suffocatingly like a dying man embraces oxygen. I needed it. I needed…him."

_You don't have anyone, and that's what I'm proposing. You need someone. I'm willing to give that to you. But on one condition…_

He turned to the driver's seat, his eyes world-weary again. "Don't you know what it's like to be tired? Tired of the world, tired of yourself, tired of how your body can never match up to your mind's ambitions? Haven't you ever wanted to let go, submerge yourself in another being, to be totally absolutely taken care of? Have you ever had a lonely moment in your _life_?"

_All I ask, my friend, is total devotion. Devote yourself to me and I will give you everything you want, you will never need again. Cross me, and I will be cruel…_

"**_It's not hard to see where you're coming from, Tetch_**." A snuffle that sounded awfully like a snort from his passenger. "**_Really. More than you think_**."

_But mostly I will be kind, what kindness is left in me. You will fear me… but with fear comes…_

"_What_?" Jervis thought helplessly.

A few moments more of silence.

"**_You know, I think this is the longest talk we've had in a long time_**."

"Yes." Remarked his passenger. "The most remarkably clear one, too. I wonder what it could be?"

"**_Perhaps treatment and outplacement programs work_**?"

A derisive chuckle. "And perhaps Time has declared he's no longer angry with me."

They both broke into uncontrollable laughter that had been tensely restrained in their bodies for some time.

Finally, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, the Hatter pointed out the turnoff for Gotham chemicals. Not that the building itself was had to miss. A large, blackened-out shell that had finally collapsed when unable to support its own weight, the remains still had another two days of evidence-sifting before the cleanup crew came to bulldoze it. Ghost of smoke danced around some of the still-warm ruins, and Batman wondered if he shouldn't have brought the extra poison filtering masks. After all, the word "chemical" was in the name.

Stepping out of the car and giving an awkward little stretch, Tetch warily scanned the area with his peripheral vision. The Thing, so far as he knew, made no sound as it moved; an attack could be sudden and invisible. He felt very vulnerable out in the open like this, and he knew that the man beside him would only provide a temporary roadblock this time.

Batman crunched carefully over the debris, wondering if either of them knew where to look, or even what they were looking for. Gordon said whatever killed the two in the bar left no trace-

"Agh!"

He quickly sprinted to where the Hatter had been poking around, he now lay at an odd angle, one arm flung up as if to protect himself. Above him was a few items of clothing hanging here and there on what was left of the perimeter fence. He could hardly see what the cause was for alarm, until he came closer and recognized one item in particular.

"**_That's_**-"

"My god!"

The sudden verbal exchange brought the Hatter out of his stupor and he clumsily got to his feet. He approached the messy straw hat on the fence and touched it squeamishly with one finger as if it still contained the body part it was supposed to cover.

Within two strides, Batman was at the fence and holding Tetch back with one hand.

"**_Careful. Let me touch it first_**."

He gingerly lifted it off the fence with a stick, making a quick scan of the brim. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a ratty old straw hat like the Scarecrow had always worn. But when he turned it over to look at the interior, he inhaled sharply between clenched teeth and the Hatter left to throw up.

There were random scorch marks along the underside of the brim, and nearly the entire inside surface of the crown was burnt. It had an odd, acrid smell to it, it was all batman could do to keep from retching himself. He placed it in a containment bag, but he could still smell it or at least thought he did. He turned to where the Hatter was emptying his stomach of breakfast, he had settled the overlarge coat on a nearby post.

Batman was struck by a pang of sympathy again, he began to wish that he hadn't brought the Hatter along at all. He hadn't been sure what bringing him here would do, he had just felt a vague sort of notion that the Hatter would want closure. He strode over to him and patted his back until he finished.

"Thankyou." He mumbled, still crouched over, eyes still trained on the ground.

Batman awkwardly fumbled for something to say. "**_I'm sorry_**."

"No, I'm sorry." He wiped his eyes. "I overreacted a bit."

"**_Well_**-"

"Maybe it was because a small part of me still stupidly expected him to be alive." He shuddered.

Batman waited a few moment, but the Hatter seemed done. He turned and picked his way through the wreckage, looking for a likely spot. He had a few false starts before he hit paydirt, so to speak, by lifting up a section of corrugated tin and finding the site of the two criminal's temporary office quarters. The forensics team hadn't been through here yet, too many little things left untouched. Some indecipherable bits of burnt memo paper. Shards of glass. A human finger.

He did a double take. No, not a finger (thank god), it was part of a pen. It had been malformed by the heat, and only part of it remained. He carefully picked it up with a containment bag and sealed it, hoping that this would be the evidence he needed and he wouldn't have to come back to this graveyard again.

He turned to the Hatter, who was now sitting on the hood of the batmobile, head hanging low on his chest and his face in his hands, legs tucked up to his body. It was time to go. He didn't want to break the Hatter's newfound mental clarity, and he could barely stand this place himself. He had enough, for now. There was no telling when and where the monster would strike again, and he would either get smart or get lucky. He touched the Hatter on the shoulder and motioned to the car.

The Hatter followed his hand dumbly, eyes too old for his face. Once they were both established in their individual seats, Batman put a hand on his shoulder. The Hatter's blank eyes and slack mouth barely acknowledged it with a diminutive smile.

This was trouble. The Hatter had barely been sane at the time of his original breakdown, but having finally found some happiness and then losing it, he might just slide so far off the deep end he would never come back. Batman felt helpless in situations like these, like there was a sickness that just couldn't be cured no matter how he tried, and the people suffered and begged for help that he really couldn't give.

He quickly turned the keys in the ignition and backed the hell out of there. That place was affecting his thoughts in some subtle way that he couldn't quite comprehend, and he wanted it to stop. He reversed the direction in which they came, intending to ask questions from a source. He didn't feel like taking the Hatter home just yet in case he snapped and tried to escape the room he was sequestered in.

Driving from back alley to back alley, he wondered idly what the Hatter would be like once he went completely over-the-top insane. Would he be as lethal as the Joker, or as colorful? Would he maintain just a little sanity, like Two-face? He had no way of knowing.

A sudden gasp from the passenger seat and a hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts.

"Batman!"

He turned. Tetch's face had become drawn and white, like it had completely drained of blood. His pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpricks, and if this were any other time, Batman would say he was having an attack.

"My pockets!"

"**_What_**?"

"My pockets." The Hatter whispered urgently. "I had an assortment of control chips and a handkerchief in my pocket."

"**_And_**?"

"They've gone."

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He watched the road for a few beats, then faced the Hatter again. He had a very earnest look on his face.

"Come now." He said with a nervous grin. "You took them, didn't you? You searched it and took them, go ahead and say it, I won't be angry, I understand."

"**_Tetch_**." He gritted his teeth. "**_I didn't take them. I searched it, yes, but I deactivated the chips and put them back_**."

The Hatter looked faint. "But, you…no…"

He turned a corner. "**_There's something else I want to tell you, and I don't want you to get alarmed_**."

The smaller man whimpered. "What?"

"**_The clothing. On the fence_**."

A look of recognition came over Tetch's face. "It-it was just **there,** just on the fence…how?..."

"**_And this_**." Carefully, he reached behind himself and pulled out the pen. "**_What are the odds of the forensics team leaving behind evidence, especially when it's this obvious_**?"

"God." The hatter breathed. "_God_."

"**_There's something following us, not right now but gradually, watching the steps we take, leading us to something_**."

"Leading us to **_it_**?" Tetch's voice delved down into a frightened whisper.

"_**I don't know. I don't **know_."

His passenger sat back again in his seat, eyes straight ahead, Batman likewise. They drove on to the Iceberg Lounge in silence.

…on a street very near by the glamorous building, disguised as a pile of trash and an overturned shopping cart, a Thing grins effusively and awaits its first full meal in a day. The man-reptile was hardly filling, and it struggled more than the Thing liked to put up with. But the man coming was already primed for easy digestion, and too full of fear to run. Yes, _yes_…

_Author's Note: apologies once again for the lateness; I just lost track of time, and then in the middle of this one I had to stop and write another story that had been brewing for some time. If I don't write those down, I get writer's block on my current projects. But that's over for now. I hope you Carroll enthusiasts liked their little exchange in the car, I threw that in for you. I promise to cover most of the major villains in the coming chapters, but don't be disappointed if I can't fit them all in. you'll see why in the coming chapters. Be seeing you. _


	5. Gyre and Gimbel

Chapter 5: Gyre and Gimbel

* * *

The room he was shown into was roughly the size of a ranch house in the suburbs. It had the tropical-fish-colored canvas of a Chagall, or at least a passable copy of a Chagall; but knowing this man he would only have the real thing. A bittersweet marble Adonis caught in mid-leap entitled "Breath of Spring" dominated one corner, illuminated by the hidden lighting scheme so popular in the restaurant outside. The walls and shelves all around the room were covered in various miscellanea, from Renaissance to new Bohéme. The whole decoration scheme was like that of a professor in art history from an ivy league college, but with slightly more taste. The walls and floor were a nearly identical dark weave, on a more sinister note than the surrounding art: they were easier to clean blood from.

Not the office of a man you'd want to just walk up to, but Batman felt this time showing a little respect for the man wouldn't hurt. After all, this wasn't a normal questioning. The undersized crime boss, now gone "legit" stared at the bat from across a mahogany desk that only served to accentuate his diminished stature. They both stared at each other for a time, Batman trying his hardest not to look uncomfortable and the Penguin grating his teeth on his ebony cigarette holder.

"Well." He said finally. "Well, _well_."

* * *

Ritchie Morrison was just some punk kid from the 'burbs when he had been thrown in the slammer for his amyl-nitrite habit. Now, at 24, he was out and looking to get back into business. The problem was, nobody much wanted to hire an overgrown cop-bait who did worse than poppers nowadays. With all the really good crime bosses getting smart and putting up a front of legitimacy, short-lived young men of his stock were no longer in demand. The most he could hope for was bathroom attendant, and even then they only trusted him in the one people didn't use much.

He's sitting on his stool, tapping his scruffy black trousers in a hyper, frantic rhythm, eyes on the clock. Just a quarter of an hour left, and Johnny would come in and relieve him, and he could go grab a cig before anyone noticed. Johnny was actually one of the busboys with kind of a twitch, but he was more polite than Ritchie and he only asked ten percent in tips when they occurred.

So Ritchie's heart soars when the door swings open a little before scheduled, but it isn't him. It's a shaken man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early-forties, with a bit of an overbite. Ritchie's new to this city, so he hasn't the first clue who it is; but he isn't _that_ new and he knows to stand up and bow courteously as a man like him can.

"Help you sir?" he tries to keep his generation x-er twang out of it and his eyes on the floor.

The man only seems startled that someone else is in here, and looks for a moment like he is debating whether to just turn around and go. But then he takes in Ritchie's appearance and is reassured, like all the haves when they see a have-not in servitude.

"N-no." his voice seems to get stronger as it echoes. "No thank you."

"All right then sir." Ritchie says. "_Stupid prat_." He thinks. He waits until he hears the stall door close before he assumes his earlier position on the stool, staring at the clock, waiting, waiting.

* * *

"I assume this is not a leisure call," the bird said, adjusting his ubiquitous monocle. "so I encourage you to get to the point quickly and leave."

"**_Don't worry, I will_**."

The bird made a wry face and opened a box of cigars. "Cigar?" he intoned. "I know you won't accept, but the impulse is bred into me."

"**_Thank you anyway. I wanted to ask you about the fire earlier_**."

"Ah. I knew it was only a matter of time before you appeared to question me on it. You really should pay more attention to your pet dog, Gordon was here hours ago with the same subject."

"**_What makes you think we have the same questions in mind_**?"

"Now, before we go any further, I want to tell you that I have several alibis for that night, and each one is airtight. I was entertaining at a party when-"

"**_Were you the one balancing balls on your nose_**?"

The Penguin's manicured hand closed tightly into a fist, and his lips pulled back into a grimace, showing his abnormally pointed teeth.

"I will assume you want me to listen instead of talk, so I will forgo the formality of killing you until you finish."

"**_You're very kind_**."

"Don't mention it." The Penguin leaned back and lit another cigarette. "Ever."

"**_Of course you saw who came in with me, didn't you_**?"

"Of course." Any mob boss worth half his salt would have double checked the guard's report of the Dark Knight walking in with the Hatter looking a little more rumpled than the circumstances called for. The Bat had sent away the Hatter, citing "nerves", for the first round of questions. The Penguin hoped he had merely decided to wait in the foyer, he just had the carpet in the hall replaced.

* * *

Jervis hadn't necessarily needed to go, he only wanted to stop the guards from staring at him like they were itching to do the Penguin a fast favor. Now, he sat in the stall listening to the junkie outside singing something in an odd mutter, every once in a while singing slightly louder phrases that seemed to be random words.

Tetch would've found this funny, if he weren't so very profoundly frightened.

He was well aware of what an easy target he made, sitting in a bathroom stall, his nearest savior at least two doors away.

He shifted slightly. He had been sitting in one place for so long his leg had fallen asleep, but still he didn't get up.

Jervis had a reoccurring fear, dating from childhood, of using public facilities. It was one he had forgotten almost entirely about, but Jonathan had brought it and other things like it back up. He shuddered, not just remembering Jonathan as he had known him the past few months, but remembering him in those last few moments, where the king of fear himself had become terrified. It seemed to Jervis that the one sturdy post that was holding his life up had broken, and he felt very frightened of the idea of learning to cope with his death.

Jonathan had not only built up his self esteem, after soundly wiping the remaining traces of it out, but he had also fostered a dependency on him, and the only thing keeping Jervis from an outright panic attack now was the fact that his death hadn't quite sunk in yet. But denial, even from someone as dedicated to it as Jervis, could only last so long in the face of cold, hard truth.

He didn't know it, but Jervis Tetch was breaking, bit by bit, after the scarecrow's apparent demise. He hadn't done this since he was a child, staying in a stall long after he needed to because he was afraid of what was outside.

He tried to calm himself by reasoning that he hadn't heard the door, no one else could have come in, it was only the attendant out there, but still he was gripped by a paralyzing fear. He felt that if he took anything larger than the tiniest breath, something would hear him and get him. He tried to swallow, found that he couldn't, and choked, panicking.

While all this was going on, Ritchie, waiting impatiently, heard the bathroom door and turned around indignantly.

"Hey, man," he began. "It's almost ten after! What the hell took you so-"

* * *

"I expect your question has something to do with our Haberdasher friend, seeing as he does not seem to be here to settle his tab. Which–I might add–has become rather lengthy."

"**_I wanted to ask you whether you've been doing any business with someone non-local_**."

"Hmm, perhaps. With who, exactly?"

In response, Batman handed over the bag containing the pen. The Penguin wrinkled his rather aquiline nose at it; maybe the smell did permeate the bag. In a once-over examination of the pen earlier, Batman had found that the pen was burnt almost purposefully, obscuring the company logo up to the point, where only a co. was visible in a wavery font.

The bird looked it over once, clicked his tongue, and tossed it back across the desk.

"With more than that, I probably could tell you, but as it is, I can't even make out the ink color."

"**_But the writing_**-"

"Is not that distinctive. Trust me, when you deal with as many writing implements as I do, you get to know a few things."

"**_So you're an expert_**?"

"Mmm…more of a connoisseur. I can tell that that pen is cheaply made, low-grade plastic, probably came about 200 to a box." He sniffed. "companies just starting out can get them made cheaply and fast, and the companies that makes these are nearly identical. I'm afraid this isn't good lead."

"**_I was afraid of that myself_**."

"How exactly does this connect with the Hatter?"

"**_He was there when it went up. So was Crane_**."

The Penguin exhaled sharply between his teeth. "So the Scarecrow didn't make it?"

"_They couldn't find a body_."

"You couldn't either?"

"**_I found this_**." He tossed the hat over. Normally he wouldn't show so much of his hand, but he felt he had nothing to lose.

What made the Penguin such a great source was that he was involved in nearly everything while being directly involved in very little. He was very helpful when he thought something on the wrong side of the law would do him detriment, but if it were the reverse, he clamped his empire shut so tightly even a stool pigeon couldn't escape. That, and the fact that he held himself with such dignity, anything considered an affront to his image went down, fast.

The Penguin took it even more distastefully than the pen, biting his lower lip when he saw the inside.

"The Hatter?"

"**_He was there too_**."

"I take it he saw the whole thing happen."

"**_Yes, and apparently Thing is right. What went after Jonathan Crane, wasn't human_**."

The Penguin sat back with a thoughtful look on his face.

* * *

The sudden silence in the bathroom, Ritchie's cut off remark, the door swinging open, all served to scare Jervis out of his petty fear into a whole new depth of terror. He heard a step.

"Young man?" he called out, his voice cracking on the second word.

Another step.

He went through a moment of indecision, his hand wavering from the door latch and back, until fear of being caught defenseless in a confined space overrode his fear of the nasty shock on the other side of the door.

He gave the latch a quick turn, stood up clumsily, and flung open the door. He blinked a moment, taking in the scene in warily for a moment before gasping "_You_-"

* * *

"-know, there is a similar incident that happened yesterday. They found the infamous 'Killer Croc' in a back alley."

"**_Dead_**?"

"Half his head was missing."

"**_I'm beginning to see a pattern here_**."

"Is this a human behind this?" He waited, knowing the answer was no.

"**_Maybe not. Most of the witnesses only caught glimpses of it, and describe it differently_**."

"Then how are you so sure it's the same thing?"

"**_I'm not_**."

* * *

The Hatter held onto the stall for support, digging in his fingers and gibbering. There, standing in front of the attendant, was the late Jonathan Crane. Of course it had to be him, Jervis didn't know why it had looked like someone else when he burst open the door. He knew the attendant was behind him because he could see him…through Jonathan.

"J…J-J-J-Jo-"

"_Jerrrviss_!" the thing hisses, and peels back its lips in a grin. It is Jonathan but not Jonathan, something about it is not right, it's off slightly, but Jervis can't think, all the blood is rushing to his ears-

* * *

"**_But I have a witness_**-"

"Whom you said is not reliable."

"**_And I have evidence_**-"

"Which cannot be traced and is therefore not a lead. You can't build an investigation on whimsy, though I've seen you try and nearly succeed, it won't work this time."

Batman rubbed his head. He needed aspirin, bad. "**_Let me go get Tetch and you can at least talk to him. I think he needs someone that knows him better_**."

* * *

It did not quite have the right colors, Jonathan's hair and eyes seemed washed-out and faded, and the head wound he sustained when Jervis took flight was too vividly red. It leered at him and took a wobbly step forward, and Jervis wondered idly if the whole thing hadn't just stuffed itself in his skin.

"You're dead."

"Oh _yes_, you'd like that to be _true_, wouldn't you, you want it so desperately to be _true_!" The thing laughed like the whistle of a steam kettle and Jervis developed a nosebleed.

"You left me behind and ran for it, didn't you, you little coward?"

"No!" he couldn't tell what exactly he was denying, he was surely guilty on both counts. The thing nodded its head and came dangerously close to losing it.

"Yess, you did, but that's fine. I didn't want to share with you anyway. I have so much more influence this way, and I don't have to listen to your whining about how nobody likes you, you were bullied in school, b-hoo, b-hoo, b-hoo-"

"S_hut up_!"

* * *

Batman flicked a glance at the guards on either side of the door, then proceeded forward. They both looked just barely restrained, the slightest little thing would set them off. He reminded himself not to scratch his nose.

Bringing Jervis back on the return trip might make for trouble, he was on edge enough as it was.

* * *

"Oooh, I'm sowwy, the widdle fairy finally finds wuv and can't take it when his boyfriend doesn't like the look of his stick-figure anymore. '_ohhhh, jonathan I love you, jonathan I need you, jonathan, never leave me_-'"

"_YOU'RE NOT JONATHAN!_" the Hatter screamed, partly through rage and partly through sorrow. This, out of all things had been his biggest fear. That Jonathan would grow tired of him, had only been using him, would add injury to insult.

The Thing merely grinned and cocked its head to a crazy angle.

* * *

Passing through the second set of doors, Batman retrieved aspirin from his belt and proceeded to chew it, dry. It was a bad habit, he knew, one that would probably get him into trouble one day…

* * *

"'I'm not Jonathan'?" the Thing giggled repulsively. "What an iron-clad defense…" it took a step forward.

Much of Tetch's earlier anger turned back into fear. "S-stay away from me."

"Why, of course I'm Jonathan. I'm a lot of other people too, but right now I'm mostly him." It took another step, which squished oddly.

"Sta-stay away!"

"You left him behind but now he's caught up with you! And he had a biiiiig superiiise tooo…"

"_STAY AWAY_!"

* * *

Odd noises were coming down the vast hallway, Batman couldn't see why it had to be so big, it was usually just a service entrance. Rounding the corner that would take him to the bathroom, he came upon a tattered mass that only upon his second look did he realize was human.

The body was on its stomach, and as he turned it over the bathroom attendant coughed wetly. He flipped Ritchie Morrison onto his back and supported his head, but even from the beginning he could tell the kid didn't stand a chance. He coughed reflexively and liquid gray ran from his nostrils.

"**_What did it? What did this to you_**?"

The kid's head lolled back and forth before his voice bounced out of someplace, sounding strangled.

"Bhhrm…bah…bathroom…s' there…eyes…eye…" the kid's head rolled around more.

"**_You're gonna be okay_**," he tried to tell him, but he didn't even finish the sentence before the kid's eyes rolled back in his head. He placed the body back in what he hoped was a respectful position. Though all of this the bathroom had remained abnormally silent.

He crept toward it now, pulling a bat-shuriken out and holding it ready.

He wasn't ready for the smell, which assaulted his nostrils like a brick wall when he swung the door open. He gagged and retched, nearly losing his hold on the door. The smell, nearly unbearable when cold, was strong enough to crack porcelain when fresh.

He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth, still gagging from the wet-clay undertones of the odor, and raised his eyes to the middle of the room.

Nothing.

His eyes swept the room, finally alighting on a crumpled figure in the corner. It had a large green top hat with a scorched brim obscuring the face; it made no movement.

He crept up to the figure, cursing the minute squeak his soles made on the mirror-finish linoleum. It took three-quarters of a minute to reach the body, and he was sweating the entire time. He oh so s l o w l y reached up and grabbed the hat on the head, and pulled it off-

Nothing. It was an empty suit of clothes. He looked around in bewilderment, suddenly noticing the scorched handprint on the mirror behind it. He turned cold all of the sudden. A laugh like something chewing though gristle sounded behind him.

He turned like a shot, catching the outline of the thing shifting briefly to something else.

It was vaguely manlike, had features of both Tetch and Crane, as well as the jaw line of Killer Croc, but everything was to such exaggerated proportions that it was a Jokeresque caricature of a human being. It bulged in odd places, was see-through in others and its eyes-

Batman caught himself before he looked, whatever was there couldn't be good.

The Thing was manically glad to see him, it grinned so wide the ends nearly met in back of his head. It opened its mouth wide and yelped out in a voice that was a cacophonic harmony of several others-

"'_O oysters come and walk with us_!'"

Batman instinctively ducked, clapping his hands over his ears. The chord the voices stuck made his intestine rumble ominously.

"_The walrus did beseech_!"

The Thing tore the door off the stall and threw it at the mirror.

"_A pleasant walk a pleasant talk along the briny beach_!"

It ripped the sink from the wall next to Batman, making the pipes spray the room and soak him.

"_We cannot do with more than four_-"

It went for where Batman was standing, but he was no longer there. He dove toward the door and rolled to spare himself while the thing screeched-

"_TO GIVE A HAND TO EACH_!"

He lurched out the door and recovered enough to stop himself slamming into the wall, and wobbled uneasily toward the emergency exit.

The door burst open behind him, flying out with such force it knocked the body of the late bathroom attendant back a few feet.

Batman was down three flights of steps before he realized the thing was not following him, he was down one more when he realized he had parked on the opposite end of the building, and he was down another two when he realized how close he was to a heart attack and finally sat down to catch his breath.

* * *

The Penguin stood surveying the carnage, between his two six-foot bodyguards he looked like he was going to pick up a spare. He nudged the still body of his former employee with a shoe, and looked upon the Hatter's crumpled suit with interest. Finally he took the end of the cigarette holder from his mouth and ordered a stretcher for young mister Morrison, he was easily disposed of and replaced. Not so the fixtures of his restroom.

He sighed and stepped daintily around the tiles and bits of twisted metal. The water had an emergency shut off valve, it had only gushed for a few minutes but it was enough to flood the floor and wash away some of the smell.

The Penguin knew that smell. He had smelled it on the two pieces of evidence the caped crusader had showed him, and he had smelled it earlier all around the outside of the building. He turned slowly like a gibbet in the wind, eyeing the damage with interest, finally stopping to rest while facing the scorched wall where the creature had gone right through…

* * *

And out in the street something throws back a head, and laughs…

_Author's Note: Woohoo! I've been meaning to get this chapter done, it's very important. Don't worry, I don't think I'm going to kill the penguin. I like the little guy too much to. And for those of you who are confused, GOOD! The chapters have just been getting longer, I hope that's not a new trend. More later._


	6. In Pace Requiescat

Chapter 6: In Pace Requiescat

* * *

Bruce Wayne popped an aspirin in his mouth and swallowed it, gulping a little water to help it down. He sat feet propped up in his home office, pangs of guilt or the beginning of a wicked spell of stomach flu lacerating his gut. 

He had been dry-heaving for the last eight hours but so far hadn't managed to bring anything up. Now dawn touched the spires of Gotham and he was wide awake, and in pain.

What had preceded this spell was something more like a nightmare than any event that could've actually happened. One thing that kept sticking with him, something that gave the incident a more unreal quality, was Tetch's clothes.

Just clothes.

No man.

The hat that he claimed lost settled where there should have been a head. That Thing.

Bruce shuddered and doubled over. Just remembering the Thing set off his stomach, because if you remembered it, then you remembered the atmosphere that went along with it, and you remembered the _smell_…

He clapped a hand on his mouth. He was quite surprised Tetch had been able to run at all, but then again he hadn't had nearly as much exposure to it as Bruce. Alfred, who Bruce hadn't even had to call for at god-knows-when at night, had found him slumped behind the wheel of the batmobile. He had kept pace with Bruce, supplying him with hot towels and cold facecloths, only now going down to the kitchen to make weak tea for him. Bruce marveled at the man rarely caught unawares, even in the time of day that was morning in name only.

He grew saddened, without really knowing why, that so many people cared so much for him and he rewarded them with so little. Besides Alfred, who appeared to run on no more than air and occasional cups of tea, there were all the little people who kept his empire running, did things for him, and he repaid them by keeping everyone at arm's length.

The Hatter was another prime example. He had come to him like a drowning man for help, and Bruce pushed him back underwater. The Hatter had come to him for safety, Bruce reciprocated by putting him directly back in danger. Of course, in light of new evidence, it might've been doomed from the start.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes felt dusty and hot after a long night without sleep or liquids. From what he could assess from the creature so far, it enjoyed toying with people before it killed them, driving them away from other people and possible help. Croc had been picked up on a back street but the existence of certain compounds in some of his skin lacerations placed him in the sewers at the beginning of the attack. Evidence indicated that the creature had been aware of the Hatter's presence all along, even his hat was accounted for. Perhaps if he dug a little deeper he would find that other more minor fixtures of Gotham's underworld had been disposed of in the same manner.

He leaned forward again and winced, hand on his abdomen. His stomach muscles were completely shot from his five-hour hurl session, it was amazing Alfred didn't have to prop him up in the chair. His hands were shaky from lack of nutrition and his mouth was cotton dry. If he didn't know any better, he would attribute these symptoms to a virulent strain of the 24-hour flu, like Alfred did.

While he sat, nauseous, his friend and confidant entered the room, sans tea tray and looking harried.

"Sir," he began, which was worrisome. Alfred didn't call him that unless a full-scale invasion was at the door.

"There's a man demanding to be let in. He says he's a business associate of yours, but when I told him you were ill, he just laughed and asked _who wasn't_."

Uh-oh. This looked familiar.

"Did he say who he was?"

"No, I don't think so. He just barged in, but he handed me a business card." He patted the pockets of the soot-grey apron he wore in the kitchen and came up with a card that Bruce didn't even have to see to know whom it was from.

"All right, send him in, and in ten minutes come in and say it's time for my doctor's appointment."

"Are you sure that's wise, sir? This man has proved impossible to get rid of so far; he may go so far as to wait here while you go."

"Show him in Alfred. I'll think of a way."

* * *

About eight minutes later, allowing for the delay of traveling between the office and the sitting room in the opposite end of the manor, Nihil Ibi was shown in to a much changed Bruce Wayne. 

He had propped himself up with pillows in a baroque armchair and covered himself in a crocheted afghan from some distant dead relative of Alfred's. He had drunk a quantity of cold water to give himself stomach cramps, and was very pleased with the results. The man in the mirror had an ashen-grey complexion and shivered often, changing his appearance to that of a man in the throes of a bad stomach infliction.

The man who was shown in was, if possible, even more the same than when Bruce had first met him. He wafted in with his perfect hair and teeth on the strange, sharp scent of a foreign cologne, hand extended. His hand gripped Bruce's, and again it was all he could do not to throw up.

"My poor Bruce, how does the day find you?" was it him, or was the man's accent slightly different today?

"I'm bad, but I've been better."

One of his patented grins creased the man's dark face. "Ah, another of your 'jokes'. When I tell my associates about you, they laugh and laugh."

He _wasn't_ hallucinating, the man's accent was different, but he couldn't tell how. His nausea had increased threefold when the man walked into the room, and it was hard to concentrate.

"I'm sorry, Ibi, but if this is only condolences, I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon, because I only-"

"Oh," his tone grew louder, like he was trying to shout Bruce down. "I do apologize. This was more than just condolences, I assure you. I had wanted to see if you were free sometime in the near future for a discussion, and also, I was curious to see how you improve your shining hours."

The man's diction was oddly flat, like he was talking with a ventriloquist's puppet. The scent that carried all around him, odd and ashy, was getting overpowering the louder the man talked, and Bruce was actually having a hard time holding his head up instead of pretending to.

"Well-" his gorge hit the back of his throat and he had to stop for a moment. "I'm sure-my secretary-I'm sure-"

"Ah-" the man's grin was like an obscene saw. "I had heard you were ill, but the rumors did it no justice. I only wanted to discuss a possible venture, I'm sure you would be interested."

Bruce sprawled lifelessly in the chair, he couldn't even get the energy to roll his eyeballs around in his head to check the clock. The man was sapping his energy with his sheer _banality_.

"What…exactly is it?"

"Why the acquisition of the asylum, of course! It covers a large amount of acreage, prime for real estate."

Bruce felt like laughing, only he couldn't.

"A few things, Mr. Ibi. The most glaringly obvious is the fact that the town fathers would never agree to your acquisition of one of the largest mental facilities in the western hemisphere for land development, even if it was hemorrhaging money, which it is."

His opponent's eyes lit up with the challenge. "Ah, but with the right funds-"

Bruce did laugh, but it came out as more of a gargling hack. "_No_ amount of money is going to make them uproot the largest collection of criminally insane patients and do god-knows-what with them. The very fact that that place is _there_ gives them stability."

If Ibi's spirits were dampened, he didn't show it. "They could be relocated, of course."

"Where? What sane person would possibly place the Joker in one of their wards? Just the value of the equipment runs into the millions because of how they've had to augment to accommodate for some inmates. Ever hear of Clayface?"

Ibi waved a hand dismissively. "Mr. Wayne, we are splitting hairs. They could always be moved to…ah, yes, 'Black Gate'. Inmates that are beyond treatment, like the Joker and the man you say, can be executed."

The clock ticked by a minute in silence while Bruce just stared at the man, awestruck. A number of possible arguments rose to the surface, all beginning with the phrase "Who the hell?". He wanted to be sick, wanted to purge the aura of this man from his system. He wanted to vomit his whole belief system back in his face so he could see what it really was. Bile.

"Mr." he began and swallowed. His throat was parched and had a metallic tang to it. He had desperately needed that tea.

"Mr. Ibi, despite all the above criminals have done, the laws of this country clearly state-"

"And what of the law, Mr. Wayne? I am sure the law is of great comfort to the thousands that have their routines disrupted daily by the activity of such burdens on society. These people that deserve much more than you are giving them."

"The insane are people too."

"Not to me."

A great silence washed over them, and interlude where Bruce found he could no longer look the other man in the eye, they almost blazed with their intensity. Being near this man made him sick, talking to him made him angry.

"It's people like you" he said finally. "that were responsible for creating the Joker and the rest. Humanity is many things, and one of them is having pity for those who are lower than you. Many of the inmates at Arkham have fallen, but they _are_ still human. And, as humans, they are treated to certain inaliable rights."

"And what of the rights of the people they hurt? What of the men they defraud in their schemes, the women they kill on a daily basis in the low places of a city with plenty of low places? What of the people who only hide behind a façade of normalcy and hide within them the same poison that pumps through the bodies they claim to be against?"

"Being off-balance doesn't immediately qualify you as a card-carrying menace to society; if it did the crime rate would skyrocket. We're all a little mad sometimes, aren't you?"

"No." he said smugly. "Are you a criminal, Mr. Wayne?"

"No. That's not very civil for you to imply that I am."

"Then it's not very civil for you to question my sanity, now, _is it_?"

Bruce bit his tongue. It had to've been at least ten minutes by now. Where the hell was Alfred?

"Sane or no, I'm afraid I can't meet you halfway on this. Please show yourself out, Mr. Ibi."

"Please, **Nihil**." He said as he stood up. His eyes still gleamed but it was as if the fire in them had been banked, and only coals were left.

"I am very sorry we could not see 'eye to eye', as it were. I hope that you do not live to regret this, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce stiffened, getting some of his old resolve back. "Is that a threat?"

"No, it is a promise, from me to you." Ibi tossed over his shoulder. "Your hair wants cutting."

And like that, he was gone.

Two minutes ticked by while Bruce sprawled listlessly in the chair, all strength gone. Then, when three had nearly come, Alfred threw open the door with an uncharacteristic crash.

"Master Wayne-Bruce-I had only just-were you in here with him the entire time? I-I just-"

"It's all right, Alfred." God, how weak he sounded! Just talking made his chest hurt.

Alfred continued to talk while he hovered over him like a mother hen, straightening things, unstraightening them, unsure of what to do with his sick charge.

"Oh, Master Bruce, I smelled smoke and I was afraid the kitchen had caught fire-it hadn't really-but then I realized you were still here-I looked out the north bay window and I saw that man walking away-does it hurt much?"

His head, lolling ineffectively, managed to nod the confirmation.

"I watched after him until he was very nearly at the gate-Master Bruce, I believe I should take you to your bedroom, you aren't well-I left you alone for so long, I'll never forgive myself-no fire, what a fool-"

"Alfred." It felt like live coals were dropping from his mouth. "I'll be _okay_. I just need to rest. Take me to bed, give me something to drink, and I'm sure I'll be all right."

"Whatever you say."

Between the two of them, they managed to maneuver him to the bed and drop him there, where he lay like a pile of laundry. After half a cup of chamomile tea spoon-fed to him, Bruce fell into an uneasy and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Waking hours later, Bruce very strongly considered rolling back over and passing out again. The past few day were taking their toll, and his mouth felt like several small finches gained ingress from a window left open and used his mouth for their own personal crapper. His head had Glenn Miller's entire ensemble playing #9 with extra snare drum, and when he stood he found his nose had begun to bleed. Lovely. 

Still, somehow he managed to heave his way down to the kitchen to get a drink of water, no mean feat as the way was punctuated by three staircases. After sitting upright and breathing slowly and deeply awhile, Bruce felt marginally better.

Deciding to leave the cup in the sink and let Alfred worry about it, he lurched to his feet and made his way to the batcave. There, he switched on the computer and sat at it for a minute, staring fuzzily.

After a moment he made one keystroke, then another, and another, until he had brought up the databank on recent offshore business deals. There was no record of a Nihil Ibi. He brought up all firms from offshore dealing in security. None involving his man.

He sat back and began to tap the card against his teeth. Alfred had left it carelessly on his desk and Bruce had stuffed it into his pocket. Something about the card nagged him, too. It wasn't the same grade of quality of most other business cards, it was thin cardstock, with offset print-

Bruce did a double-take.

The writing. Of _course_. It was the same wavery font as the pen, the co insignia was identical. It was all starting to click together. He turned the card over. There was no marking but in the upper-left corner, where there was the slightly scorched outline of a fingerprint.

He had never left information with his secretary, had scheduled an appointment but without stating the reason. The Scarecrow had his pen, not a certainty but strong evidence that they had been dealing with him.

The man had no record. It was like he never existed. Even his ethnicity- he punched in his name. After a moment, he swore and whacked the console. "Nihil Ibi". Latin. Roughly translated: "Nothing there".

He then searched through Gotham's PD files and grimly nodded at what came up. Lock-up turned up dead in the work farm he was sent to. The Clock King went missing from his apartment, his probation officer arrived to find everything as it was, no sign of struggle. Pamela Isley had been released and never heard from again.

Whole pages of disappearance, all under different circumstances and minor enough not to warrant more than a raised eyebrow. What does it matter if people are being killed? They were bad, and considering what's left behind, no more than a drop in a bucket.

He rubbed his eyes. This was a tenuous connection at best, even if he could prove Nihil was somehow connected to some of them, how would he find him? He hadn't the first clue where to look, and by the Hatter's description the businessman had come to them-

He stared off into space, tapping his finger. Nihil Ibi. No one there. The creature. It didn't so much kill as absorb its victims. Nihil Ibi. When he had seen it, it had the features of at least three people he knew it had killed. Parts of had been transparent. "nothing there".

The creature moved quick enough so that it was always one step ahead of its victims, wearing them down with its presence, making them unsure when it would strike.

He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Nihil Ibi. Had come to see him. Had heard he was sick.

Bruce had only been in for a few hours, most of them dark. The likelihood of someone from his company calling that early, even if it was urgent… And Alfred would never, to someone he didn't know-

Alfred.

Damnation.

He turned to the stairs, where he was able to glimpse a dark figure for a moment, possibly carrying another figure, before there was and explosion and blood and darkness and pain.

* * *

_Author's note: Two chapters in two weeks! Woot. This story has been nagging at the corner of my eye, I've got a rough outline of how it should be finished, but I've got so many ideas for a finale that I know I won't use all of them. I've been reading issues of Detective Comics, #777-780's, and I can't find any more! The storyline, Dead Reckoning, is really intriguing and I love the villain's characterizations. Especially Scarecrow, love the granny glasses. Sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger…again. Also, please forgive my bastard latin._


	7. Der Januskopf

Chapter 7: Der Januskopf

* * *

Small, wiggly things swam about in the darkness. A primordial sea seethed and swirled with all things uncreated yet. Phantasms of light danced through the scene to an invisible piper, then were no more. Then there was a droning, throbbing rhythm, going on and on, from behind the stiff wall of his eyes… 

_In the greenest of our valleys  
By good angels tenanted,  
Once a fair and stately palace-  
Radiant palace–reared its head._

Sounds were beginning to distinguish themselves now, and the throbbing he heard or rather felt was pain. Pain shot through his body and laced his nerves, each microscopic pink ganglion becoming a satellite system of agony. He had no body, he was floating alone in space and darkness, nothing, nothing…

_In the monarch Thought's dominion-  
It stood there!  
Never seraph spread a pinion  
Over fabric half so fair!_

There were things now, shapes in the mist. He had a body, the pain made far away by means or medication. He could not feel much of his skin on the lower right portion of his abdomen, and his eyes refused to open, like they were fused together. He tried and nearly blacked out again, but with far too much straining at last managed.

_And every gentle air that dallied,  
In that sweet day,  
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,  
A wingéd odor went away._

There was light, light that seared into him, making the pain come closer than it had been for hours. By squinting and closing his eyes in increasing turns, he was able to get past the threshold of pain and make out colors. There was sound, and a gold glint that moved up and down irregularly, as if on a head. Father?...

_Round about a throne where, sitting  
(Porphyrogene!)  
In state his glory well-befitting,  
The ruler of the realm was seen_

And as those basic things came back to him, others came too. His left eye was crusted over with a substance he could not give name to, ditto his torso and right arm. His left ear ached with multiple lacerations and his right was covered in something like cotton fog. He couldn't move his leaden limbs, even his eyelids were like dead metal.

_But evil things, in robes of sorrow,  
Assailed the monarch's high estate.  
(Ah, let us mourn!–for never morrow  
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)_

Through much fluttering and smarting, he was able to open his eyes to a passable degree, but it was some time before colors and forms came into clear relief.

_And travellers, now, within that valley,  
Through the red-litten windows see  
Vast forms, that move fantastically  
To a discordant melody,_

He was in a tastefully furnished room, it seemed more like a study that had had a sick-bed flung haphazardly into it, objet d'art cluttered nearly every surface. Tiffany lamps probably costing more than the gross national product of Mexico suffused the room with a healthy glow. And on a mahogany Chippendale chair, monocle wedged into his eye socket, sat a squat figure.

_While, like a ghastly rapid river,  
Through the pale door  
A hideous throng rush out forever  
And laugh–but smile no more._

The Penguin closed the book with a snap and turned to his recumbent patient.

"I see you're up." He said "Bruce."

* * *

Bruce Wayne could now sit up under his own power and sip the bitter liquids they gave him, but the moment he tried to stand his legs gave up on him. 

"Never mind." The Penguin waved his guards away and helped Bruce up himself, remarkably strong for such a small man.

"What I want you to do now is recuperate, then in a few hours I want answers, do I make myself clear?"

Bruce couldn't even get up enough energy to nod.

Five hours later he was still feeling weak, but could hobble short distances by holding onto walls for support. He was alone in his semiprivate room, but there was no door to the hall or the bathroom. Eventually pressing need overcame modesty and he used the facilities, nearly slipping trying to flip the light switch. Once inside he sat down heavily on the toilet, wincing and gently probing his abdominal muscles. He hadn't had the courage yet to take off the gauze he was swathed in, by the Penguin's account he was quite a mess.

He sat on the toilet until his legs fell asleep, grateful for the fact that the doorway didn't directly open to the toilet and he was afforded a modicum of peace. Finishing up, which took far too much effort, he hobbled back into his room while hitching up his pants. He then discovered he was no longer the sole occupant.

* * *

A lean, slump-shouldered man sat on the bed, his thinning white hair fanning out like messy wings from his head. He was cradling a small lump swaddled in blankets close to his chest, but any idiot could tell you it wasn't a baby. Bruce was temporarily alarmed, but it passed.

Bruce Wayne, surprisingly, had less to fear from these people on a personal level than Batman did. As soon as one of them saw the cape and cowl, all hell broke loose. But Bruce Wayne, who could he harm? He barely worked an hour a day if ever, and enjoyed La Dolce Vita, as it were. He couldn't be relied on for last-minute heroics or sudden violence. He was just another human.

Batman, however…

A few moments had passed, and the man on the bed still gave no indication that he saw Bruce. Bruce waited all he could, but when the blood began to pool painfully in his legs, he took a chance.

"Arnold." He called.

The man on the bed winced and looked around, panicky, as if he was caught doing something inappropriate. Bruce couldn't see it, but when his eyes settled on the man across the room from him, his pupils shrank temporarily behind his opaque glasses, before dilating so that they nearly swallowed the iris.

"_M-M-Mr. Wayne_!" God, his voice sounded more shot than usual, like he had screamed for hours with his alter-ego.

The unassuming man before him was Arnold Wesker, though his normally unshakable puppet was no where in evidence. Usually Mr. Scarface was the first to engage anyone in conversation, mostly by screaming epithets of an unflattering nature.

One of the few Rogue's gallery criminals that Bruce truly felt sorry for. In a city lousy enough with malevolent entities, Wesker had created his own. Which he clung to now, cuddling to his chest like he was afraid Bruce would take it from him. Scarface was notably silent on the subject.

"Arnold." Bruce said wearily. "Would you mind scooting over, just a little? I really need to sit down."

The Ventriloquist's mouth opened and closed a few times, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to speak, before he scooted over the fractions of an inch it took for Bruce to sit down. He sat heavily, sinking the non-too-soft mattress beneath him, and making the Ventriloquist squeak in alarm while trying to remain upright. He lay back for a minute or two, while the man beside him breathed in short, panicky gasps.

"Arnold." He said bleakly. "Tell me this is all just some dream."

"_Hunh_?"

He smiled, even though it felt like someone had taken a ripsaw to the corners of his mouth.

"Never mind. How come you're here?"

"_I c-came here, Mr. Cobblepot promised to p-protect me, sir_."

The protection thing again. He sighed and sat up.

"Someone stalking you Arnold?"

"_N-n-no_." The little man looked close to tears.

"Police trouble?"

"_No_." He denied in a small voice.

"Did-"

"_It-it isn't __**me**__ Mr. Wayne_!"

"Oh." His gaze traveled down to the bundle Wesker clutched at his chest. "_oh_."

"_M-M-Mr. Scarface was saying something about a fu-funny smell, and he kept seeing this shape d-disappearing whenever he l-looked at it! I tried to tell him to go to someone else for protection, but he was to p-p-proud to ask for help! It got so he couldn't sleep at night, and I wo-worried s-so mu-hu-huch_!" The Ventriloquist wiped his eyes violently with the back of one hand. Bruce could see a large knuckle bandage covering up the back of it, something brownish seeping through.

"_Th-then all our h-h-heists started go-going wrong, and M-Mr. Scarface b-blamed me! A-a-and then l-last night_-" Here he cut off and buried his face in his hands.

It was a pitiful scene. Wesker, who had so little, had enough decency left in him to worry about his abuser. It was both sickening and touching. He made a move to put his hand on Wesker's shoulder, but the Ventriloquist straightened up with an almost fiery gaze.

"_R-Rhino and the others st-stayed behind, tried to give us time, but then I took a wrong turn and w-we were in a m-maze of back alleys, and Mr. Scarface w-wouldn't stop __**screaming-**__"_ he stopped and a weary look came over his face.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed, Wesker's arms lay heavily in his lap, as if the bundle were full of lead. Bruce was on the verge of prompting him to go on when he started speaking again, in a hollow and eerily calm voice.

"_We ducked into an empty apartment building_(shot through the door, Bruce noted) _and we climbed to the highest floor but_-" he made a funny sort of chuckling noise, and Bruce thought that he had finally cracked under the pressure until he saw blood trickling from his nose and realized that he was sobbing.

"Arnold, are you-" with sudden violence, Wesker reached out and grabbed onto the lapel's of Bruce hospital pajamas, shaking like an earthquake.

"_It followed us there, don't you see? We were more than eight stories up, but it followed us there, and Mr. Scarface shot at it but it didn't do anything and then…"_ he let his hands drop listlessly.

"And then?" Bruce asked.

As an answer, Wesker unwrapped the top of the bundle.

* * *

A tall henchperson stood at the door.

"Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce managed to tear his gaze from Wesker's lap and look up.

"The boss would like to see you now."

Very shakily and gracelessly, he got to his feet and followed, leaving Mr. Wesker sitting forlornly, looking at the thing in his lap.

* * *

_Author's Note: don't worry, I'll explain what was in the bundle in the next chapter. The poem that the Penguin is reading in the beginning is, of course, "The Haunted Palace", by the master of the macabre himself, E.A. Poe. I noticed no reviews since chapter 4, c'mon guys, I like your feedback! Unimportant note, but I was unsure of what to have the Hench call the Penguin, whether he would use his crime moniker or the more legitimate "Mr. Cobblepot"(kind of a carryover from Batman Returns). Just three more chapters, at the most, and I'll be done!_


	8. Thought's Dominion

Chapter 8: Thought's Dominion

* * *

The room Bruce was shown into lacked the austerity of the Penguin's other rooms; perhaps because this room was his personal favorite, his aviary. It in no way rivaled the aviary at his mansion, but it was cathedral-sized compared to the other rooms in the building.

The Penguin stood facing the wire mesh that made up one of the walls when Bruce was shown in. He continued to stand with his back to Bruce, staying still for so long that Bruce wondered if he even knew he was in the room. But finally, after agonizing moments, he spoke.

"A puzzle." He announced without preamble.

"Hunh?" Bruce said, feeling muggy.

"A puzzle. Jigsaw, for our purposes. A jigsaw puzzle can indeed be completed by anyone, no matter the complication, by trial and error. You do not need Mr. Nygma to solve it, you will get there eventually." He turned and took the cigarette holder out of his mouth. "You can sit over there."

Bruce gratefully dropped into the chair he indicated, his legs tingling.

The Penguin tapped an ash and went on. "However; to solve the puzzle one thing above all else is essential. One must have all the pieces to start with, otherwise it will be an exercise in futility."

Bruce kept his mouth shut, waiting for the Penguin to get to the damn point already.

The Penguin stood in front of Bruce, and even through his standing advantage he was still shorter. He affixed Bruce with a cold eye.

"Now, this particular puzzle I refer to is indeed missing a piece; nay, pieces. I am unaware of the exact size an shape of most of them, and I'm not even sure if they are all to the same puzzle. In short, Mr. Wayne, I am stumped."

Bruce bit back a witty retort and nodded.

"I have the testimony of many associates, underlings, and witnesses, and they all sound similar. But they do not a cohesive form make." He took a puff. "That, my dear boy, is where you come in."

Bruce nodded, this time more cautiously. He didn't like where this was going.

The Penguin paused, looking up in the ceiling in thought, before continuing in a monotone.

"Mr. Wesker, _sans_ his wooden friend I'm afraid, sought me out a few days ago, spinning a wild tale of pursuit and shadows. An anomaly, to be sure; but then not three days later the question mark himself, Edward Nygma, approaches me. His account is much the same, dissimilarly the compatriot. He in fact told me he had been with Miss Pamela Isley until recently, and that she had been taken while in the fields. Mr. Wesker's tale, I'm sure, you have heard."

The Penguin looked at him again, as if measuring him with his eyes. Bruce, to his credit, was a stone block; but inwardly he seethed. The Penguin had had these criminals _and _their testimony, had known full well what he had been talking about when he had visited him as Batman. And yet he had hid it. He detested himself for not expecting betrayal, and hated himself for being surprised by it.

"And, further back, about a month ago…" The Penguin trailed off thoughtfully.

Bruce rocked back and forth slightly. He itched to hop off the chair and belt the little man in the face, shut his lies up for good, stupid, double-dealing little…

"Jonathan Crane." The name brought him still, ice water cascaded down his spine.

"What about him?"

The Penguin took out his monocle, breathed on it, polished it on the front of his shirt, and put it back in. "Nearly the same. He approached me for protection. Said he was being followed by something he couldn't get a handle on. Mentioned a burnt smell. I was in the middle of negotiations when Mr. Tetch was released. I didn't hear from him after that."

He looked Bruce in the eyes again, and Bruce felt like he was looking right through him, there was no person there anymore…

"Which brings me to you. The multi-millionaire whom my employed muscle found raving in the park at around three last night. It took seven of them to restrain you, and you kept screaming about 'the eyes'."

Bruce swallowed, his throat suddenly sore. "_I_-" he croaked. The Penguin nodded at something behind him and out of nowhere a slim young woman in a fashionable dress poured him a drink from a tall crystal pitcher.

"Thank you, Wren. As you were saying, Bruce?"

Bruce gulped the water, so cold it hurt, and cleared his throat. "I don't remember anything past yesterday, when I took a sick day off from work. A business associate visited and then left, and then…" he hunched his eyebrows together in a passable imitation of thought. The Penguin wasn't buying it, though.

"_Mister_ Wayne, you show all the symptoms of the other victims of the attack, but you are lacking in two things. A motive, and a decent alibi."

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you expect me to believe that you were just sitting at home, twiddling your thumbs, when this _thing_ attacks you and then politely drops you off in the park? _What_ in _god's name_ do you _take me for_?"

They glared at each other a moment, neither gaining ground, until the Penguin sighed and a look of tired resignation came over his face.

"Look." He said. "You don't have to believe me. Here." And he motioned with his hand.

Two women in identical fashionable attire wheeled in a television set. The thing was only slightly above AV club standards, and of course one wheel squeaked like metal on glass. Bruce winced as the rolled it into position in front of him, and the Penguin produced a remote and clicked it on.

"-_not, repeat, not approach the area, which has been flagged as a hazardous zone by Gotham city police. The bodies of its sole occupants, a Mr. Bruce Wayne and a Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, have yet to be found. Bruce Wayne is, of course, the head of Wayne Enterprises, and Alfred Pennyworth was employed as_-" click.

The Penguin looked at Bruce intently. "Mind telling me the truth now?" he asked airily.

* * *

Bruce gulped his soup, overeagerness and weakness making him slop half of it down his chin. Miss Wren was there with a linen napkin, wiping his mouth carefully as a mother. Miss Starling brought him another bowl, steaming hot, that he enjoyed with slightly less gusto. The Penguin sat across from him, enjoying his Salmon en Croute in silence.

Bruce had told him nearly everything, and it was enough, for now. He had said that the man that had visited him had been suspect, had no links to Gotham, and was probably involved some way. Alfred had been showing him the door when the explosion happened, though Bruce was not sure if it really was an explosion, and Bruce had managed to escape, though not without smoke damage. He had hypothesized that whatever chemical the man had used to trigger the explosion had left him in delirium, in addition to the damage sustained from smoke inhalation.

He sat now, never more hungry in his life, getting food all over the hand-embroidered tablecloth. The Penguin had watched him down the first bowl of soup, wincing, before turning to his own dish, slightly less appetized.

When Bruce's frenzy had turned sluggish, his hand barely able to make it from his plate to his mouth and then back again, Miss Lark and Miss Starling cleared his plates while Miss Wren dabbed at his chin one last time.

The Penguin lit a Turkish cigarette and blew a smoke ring, nodding in contentment. Bruce rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, literally so full it hurt. Both went on in silence, while Miss Wren brought Bruce a padded dressing gown.

Finally the Penguin spoke. "I suppose you already know this, but-"

"You don't think this thing can be stopped, do you?"

The Penguin nodded. "We have no concept of what it really is, just vague rambling of mad- and half-mad men. We have no idea _why_ it operates as it does, how it picks its targets, the only thing we really seem to have is that it seems to like savoring its victims."

"And it never takes them alone."

"Not true. What about 'Killer Croc'? I think many of the incidences so far have involved people who became aware of the danger and attempted safety in numbers, or in your case-"

"Just dumb luck." Bruce's eyes glittered. Alfred. Was he dead? Worse, was he with that thing?

The Penguin held the elegant holder out and Miss Lark materialized out of nowhere with a silver ashtray. "The thing that puzzles me most in all of this is Batman. He was investigating, he was in this very building when the Hatter disappeared, he might even have seen it happen. So where is he?"

Bruce didn't want to look up, knowing his eyes would betray him. "Maybe it got him."

"Well then." The Penguin tapped another ash into the tray, while Miss Lark looked stonily forward. "In that case, it is my fervent belief that we are all deeply and thoroughly screwed."

Bruce pitched forward, his face in his hands. _Hopeless_, utterly _hopeless_. Perhaps Batman could have…but he was only a man, barely even that, what hope did he…

"I have to go after it." He murmured behind his hands.

"What?" The Penguin glanced at him like you would a derelict. "You?"

"Yes." He murmured, peeking out from between his fingers at him.

"Why?"

"Because."

"_Because_…?"

"Because I think I know how to find it." Bruce said with slow realization. "And I think I know _where _to find it."

The Penguin snorted good-naturedly. "Don't be a fool. In _your _condition?"

"I don't think we have any other choice."

The Penguin grimaced. "Bruce, I don't think you _quite_ realize the extent of your injuries. When we found you, you…what do you think you're doing?"

Bruce had risen, shakily supporting himself on the table.

"Y-You can't possibly-"

Bruce turned, as if to stride away; but the movement brought his hip into grazing contact with the edge of the table, which sent shock coursing through his body. He swayed unsurely for a moment, before dropping like a sack of rocks back into his chair. He breathed heavily through clenched teeth, tears squeezing out though his screwed shut eyes. After the pain subsided slightly, he opened them again to find the Penguin a great deal nearer than before, looking at him with sympathy and slight guilt.

"Bruce," he said softly "_When_ we found you, the damage was much more severe than we made it out to be. We did all we could, but you still…there was so much of it, and finally we couldn't do anymore and just bandaged you up, hoping for the best, you see-"

But Bruce was miles away, feverishly ripping off the gauze that enveloped his torso, trembling in fear and anticipation. When he had made his way through seven layers, he began to notice the smell. It was that odd, chemical burn but this time it had undertones of something else, like when you accidentally burn a fingernail in the fire…

When he had finally torn through all the layers, his hands dropped feebly to his sides and the Penguin's breath hitched slightly. There was not much left that could be called skin on Mr. Wayne's torso, and what there did not look like skin was supposed to. What took up most of the space on his stomach was char, hard black ash that felt sandy to the touch. It made odd ripples and fluctuations, as if the burn had boiled his skin, and when he dared to feel a small protrusion it crumbled under his touch.

Bruce looked from the burn to the Penguin, who was looking at him regretfully, and back to his burn. There was no sensation on his stomach, or, to his increasing horror, his right arm and potions of his lower legs. He began to get vertigo, he could hear the Penguin talking soothingly to him as the world spun away from him. Under the circumstances, there was only on thing to do, really.

He opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

_Author's Note: Oooh, short chapter, and practically no allusions! It may take a chapter or two more than I previously thought, but oh well._


	9. One More Red Nightmare

_Chapter 9: One more red nightmare

* * *

_

In a back alley that hadn't seen daylight in forty years, the Thing had a tummy ache…or an ache in what passes for its tummy. Perhaps that last being had disagreed with It, or perhaps It had eaten too many in the space of a few days…no, that was quite impossible. Yet here It was, so full it could no longer keep the man-form that had been Its daily disguise. It sprawled in an interesting heap, praying that no one would come by, It was too full to even mimic shadows. And if they saw It, It would have to-

_The Thing urped and heaved. Just the thought of coming into contact with them hurt, because It was so porous that just a light touch made it hear them screaming out inside. Just by giving the card to the butler, when his fingers brushed the stray molecules that It left on the card, It had been uncertain about keeping its human shape. It had inspired the Thing into a hunger frenzy, like all human and some animal contact did, but it had also felt something new. Nausea. _

_Perhaps it was because he was so close to the Bruce-human, his sensation was quite contagious. Or perhaps it was devouring the butler, so far from Its normal diet. All It wanted was to lie down a few hours, maybe sleep a little-_

_But no. That would not happen. It took something like a breath and heaved Itself up to its feet. It couldn't take man-form, to be sure, but with some time and a little squeezing, It could get Itself into a manhole, and then from there it could go a clump of apartment buildings very near Ark-ham. The reptilian had left a very detailed thought-map, and the addition of the little man with the hat had given it a working knowledge of the technology that secured the facility. And then…

* * *

_

The windshield wipers slapped in time as the unmarked squad car made a left on Kane street; inside Harvey Bullock glanced doubtfully at the sky.

"Looks like its just gonna get worse, Commish." He said. "You sure you want to do this today?"

The other occupant of the car was gazing out the window, masticating his upper lip with his teeth and showing no sign that he even heard.

"I mean…" Bullock trailed off when he recognized his superior wasn't listening. When Gordon got in these moods it was best to humor him, keep as quiet as you could and let him think.

They drove on in silence

* * *

The man in the bed sat propped up with pillows, his head dangling carelessly on his neck. The Penguin sighed and put a fatherly hand on his head. The man ducked out from under it.

"Bruce." He said.

The man turned away.

"_Bruce_." The Penguin said a little more impatiently.

He pretended to sleep.

"_Fine_." The Penguin snapped. "Just close your eyes and wallow in your own misery. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bruce shook his head limply.

"You're acting like a three-year-old, I hope you know."

He just swallowed.

Bruce had barely recovered from the mania that struck him when he saw the state his body was really in. When he had uncovered his torso, then his arms, then his legs, then his ear. He had started screaming aloud at that point, to see all the blackened bits of his body, and tried to cut his own ear off with a knife he could barely even hold.

He lay now, clothed in gauze covered by three different robes that did nothing to block out the smell. Once it was in your nostrils, you smelled it everywhere.

"I am speaking to you in the hopes that the rational being I know is still in there hears me and stops you from this- this-"

"_**Idiocracy**_?"

The man's voice was raspy and low, he hadn't used it in some time except to scream. The Penguin lowered his umbrella, with which he had been emphasizing his point.

"Actually, I was searching for a _real_ word. Bruce, you have to come to terms with reality!"

Bruce flung his hands over his ears, one of which had been covered with so much layers of gauze and duct-tape it no longer looked like an ear.

"Consider the attacks on the others! A considerable amount could only cower and run! The Ventriloquist can't even feed himself, for godssakes!"

Nothing from the man in bandages.

The Penguin shook his head in disgust at the futility of it all. He had hoped he could provoke the man into some sort of outburst, showing some of his old verve, but-

"_**You have no idea**_." the man in bed said quietly.

The Penguin turned, barely sure he'd caught that.

"Say what now?"

"_**You have no idea what I've gone through, what any of us have gone through**_."

"Well, Bruce, I-"

"_**No**_." his tone getting gradually louder. "_**You have no clue. How can you? You've never had your-your**_**- **_body__** compromised in such a way, you haven't- you haven't**_-"

"What?" The Penguin asked gently.

Bruce sighed and finally faced The Penguin, the dull red scratches on his eyelids catching the lamplight.

"_**Nowhere is safe now**_."

* * *

Gordon worried his moustache with his teeth, eyes on the driving rain outside. He didn't even know what they were chasing, but it was a safe bet it would end up in Arkham.

He had no strong evidence, only a string of coincidences leading up to something he couldn't quite see, and the only place to go when you've got the tail end of nothing is Arkham, a placed comprised entirely of loose ends. He was going with his gut on this one, a bit risky, but what cop hadn't at one time or another?

They had found Lyle Bolton this morning, decaying by the compost pile of the work farm. Pamela Isley had been found this afternoon, and it would take some time for that mental image to go away.

Gordon gritted his teeth, tasting bile over the memory of that sunlit field, picking up the limp form, Pamela's head crawling with…

God, _that_ would never go away.

* * *

The Penguin studied Bruce critically. Life among crazies had given him experience, and he was wariest when those around his were dead calm. Usually that was a sign of the horror to come, but Bruce did not seem like the type for sudden outbursts. He seemed…defeated.

"Bruce." He intoned softly. "I don't mean to repeat a tired old adage, but perhaps talk would make it better-"

"_**It won't make anything better**_!"

The Penguin flinched.

"_**Don't**_ _**you see? I wasn't careful, and the people around me suffered! Alfred…and**_-" he buried his face in his hands.

The Penguin was braced for an impact that never came. After a few moments, he cautiously moved closer and began patting Bruce's back, he had a vague notion about trauma victims needing contact. Bruce wrenched away.

"_**I'm responsible**_." He said hoarsely. "_**I didn't check, I should've**_-"

"Now, Bruce. It's not entirely your fault. No one got away once that thing decided to go after them, even the Hatter who managed to get away temporarily-"

"_**But I **__promised_!" He cried, nearly sending heavies running in. The Penguin waved them off.

"_**I promised, he- he**_-"

"Now Bruce-"

"_**He came to me for protection, don't you see? And I promised him! I'm an idiot**_!"

The Penguin's eyes widened slowly as realization struck him, his monocle clattering to the floor.

"Well." He said in a carefully neutral tone. "We should get in there."

* * *

Most of the victims had been crazies, anyway. With any luck they would arrive at the future site of another incident, before it happened.

Gordon flicked a cigarette butt out the window, a jet of cold air hitting him like a slap.

The P.I. was a funny occurrence, it threw the whole thing into confusion. It proved that whoever was doing it, if it was human, wasn't in their right mind in _any_ sense. Even maniacs like the Joker knew to leave boys of the badge alone when they didn't want to draw attention.

But the shamus had been…

Here they turned onto Arkham lane, and Gordon felt the grumblings of intuition. He had a bad feeling about this, any cop could smell a trap when he was walking into it, and even Harvey was shifting around in the driver's seat.

If that thing was already there, then what could he do? Call a S.W.A.T. team? No, he just had to gamble on the chance it hadn't arrived yet, had to see for himself.

* * *

The Penguin's drawing room, when Bruce was ushered in, was lit mostly by a tidy fire in a walk-in fireplace. It threw the jagged contours of Edward Nygma's skull into sharp relief, and hid Arnold Wesker's eyes behind his enormous lenses. Both looked quite the worse for wear, especially Wesker, who clung to his bundle with a death grip. Nygma rocked slowly back and forth, a minor burn on the left side of his face and patches of hair singed off.

Bruce sat down in a deep armchair, wincing at the effort. The Penguin materialized at his arm, a snifter of brandy at hand.

"Well, my fellow refugees, we are all here and accounted for. Who would like to start?"

Except for the crackling of a log, utter silence.

The Penguin sighed and took off his monocle to rub his eye. "Please? Someone?"

Nygma muttered to himself, Wesker cast his gaze to the floor. Bruce carefully avoided the Penguin's eyes.

"Anyone?"

"_Please_." Wesker voice sounded much worse. "_You'll wake Mr. Scarface_."

Nygma snorted. "Wesker, that doll's got about as much chance of waking up as I do of conventional reproduction now."

It was a cruel thing to say, and Wesker buried his face in his bundle, shoulders shaking.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

Bruce sighed. "_**Oh, I might as well. I propose going to Arkham**_."

The Penguin and Riddler stared at him, Wesker's shoulders merely clenched.

"Why, in god's name, would you want that?" Nygma uttered slowly.

"That is the _very_ question I've been asking him myself." The Penguin settled on the arm of Nygma's chair.

"_**You don't really have to listen to me, I just want to say this and then I'm going, with or without you. I need to be at Arkham by tonight, or things are going to get worse, much worse**_."

The Penguin sighed. "You've been saying that, Mr. Wayne, but you haven't elaborated. Why do we need to go to Arkham?"

"_**I didn't say we, I need to. Because I know how to stop it, and my life isn't worth that much anymore. If I die, which is almost certain, it won't be **__too__** bad**_."

Nygma grunted. "And this is taking into account that you are the main driving force behind Gotham's economy?"

"_**My money is, and that's easily taken care of by people more experienced than me**_." Bruce winced and put his hand to his ribs.

"And I would now like to remind Bruce of my earlier stance, that this is without reason and very, very stupid." The Penguin said.

"_**I know**_," Bruce continued without any indication he heard the jab, "_**That is, I **__think__** I know what it's here for…and why it was me that Thing sought out. It's not killing them, it's feeding on them somehow…I…**_" he swayed in his chair.

"Bruce." The Penguin spoke up. "Even if all you really had was an inkling, if you had enough evidence I would back you up; but as it is-"

"_But that's just the thing, isn't it_?" The Ventriloquist raised his head up from his knees. "_That thing doesn't leave evidence. That's why they can't catch it, that's why everyone who tries to get away_…" his voice died off, but Bruce caught his meaning. He tried not to look at the bundle, knowing it contained the blasted shell of Arnold Wesker's "boss", the face burnt and warped to something oddly resembling a start of extreme surprise.

"That's true. And it kills in such a way that people aren't aware of its presence, until it is too late." Nygma's bleak voice cut in.

"This is all well and good, but-" the Penguin interjected.

"_**I think I've had the most contact with it, that is, the most without becoming one of its victims. I think it only attacked to incapacitate me, it knows exactly where I am and is sure I won't move until it's ready to collect me**_." Bruce broke off to cough into one hand, the strange black sand that he had been hacking up all day speckling his palm. Miss Wren appeared and handed him a monogrammed kerchief with his initials. You had to admire Penguin's class.

"If all of this is true, Bruce, why are you suggesting leaving? If you stay here, we could formulate a plan, with your help-"

"_**It would kill us all, or something worse. I don't want to sit around and wait for death. I want to go to Arkham, I want to confront this thing head-on, like I should have done in the beginning**_."

The Penguin sighed, gazing at the pathetic shell of his once-proud enemy. There was room in him now for pity, and a small degree of concern for the dying man.

"I have just one question, why do you think this Thing is going to Arkham?"

* * *

They pulled into the windy parking lot, Bullock taking a moment to dump out the mug of coffee he had allowed to go cold in the bushes. Then they proceeded to the front entrance.

A young man with a shock of red hair and a small quiet man were the only ones at the sentry desk when the two cops came down the hall to ward C. they stood up hastily when they spotted the two cops, snapping to sloppy attention.

"Welcome,_ sir_!" the red-haired man smiled, his round face making him look like an overenthusiastic baby.

"Yeah." Added the quiet one, whose nametag read "August".

"At ease, boys. We wanted to-"

"Check out inmate 2501? Fantastic! You're early! Your colleague said you wouldn't be here for another hour at least!" chirped the carrot top.

Gordon wasn't sure he heard right.

"Aare you saying, Mr.-" he looked at the quiet one, who flushed and looked down while muttering a name. "Derleth? Someone just stopped in for an unscheduled visit?"

"He, um, had the, um, proper paperwork, sir." Muttered August.

"Was it properly filled out? Did you call the front desk? Dammit, man, did someone even call to ask about an unscheduled visit?"

The redhead's forehead scrunched in thought. "I…come to think of it, we didn't really think to check. I mean, he didn't act like one of the crazies posing as a doctor, and he seemed to know just what he was doing. Besides-" he gave an embarrassed little laugh. "he had just the most _awful_ cologne you've ever smelled, and we wanted to get him out in a- sir? Mr. Gordon?"

But Gordon was already through the double doors, shouting at Harvey for backup while he was already one and a half steps ahead, his walkie already at his ear. Gordon set a brisk pace down the hall, the knot of dread in his stomach growing.

Nothing had been disturbed on the way down the hall, even the inmates seemed the same, all peering at him expectantly, bored and irritated.

"Hey Gordie!" on of the boisterous inmates shouted. "You're a little late. Your pretty little boyfriend was already through here, heard him talking to the J-man, and then a whole lotta' moaning! You gettin' jealous?"

Finally he passed the double door into the area where the Joker and others of the rogue gallery were kept. It was emptier than it had been in a long time.

And there down at the end of the hall…

Gordon started sprinting, cursing his past eight dinners. The door to the cell was open, and inmates of the surrounding cells were cowering away…

He came to an abrupt stop, gun already drawn.

"_Hands up_!" he roared.

The figure bent over the heap on the ground merely made an odd noise, very like a giggle.

A bead of sweat ran like ice down Gordon's temple.

"_I said, hands _up!" he cocked the gun. "_Or I start shooting_!"

The figure straightened slowly, and turned glacially to meet Gordon's gaze. At that moment, all the blood in his body froze, and his hands began to work automatically, pumping round after round into the figure that didn't even flinch. Even when he ran out of ammo, even when he heard Bullock yelling behind him too late, his hand still worked the trigger.

* * *

"If your food is insanity, what would make the most flavorful meal?"

All three looked at him, horror dawning on their faces.

"Joker?!" Nygma gasped.

* * *

_Author's Note: been a bit since I've last written, hasn't it? Don't worry, there's only one more chapter coming. And no, there probably won't be any sequels, I'll have a hard enough time wrapping up what loose ends there are here. See you, space cowboy._


	10. Prognosis

Chapter 10: Prognosis

* * *

It was a cold, gray day in a long series of cold, grey days, but luckily the Penguin's limousine was heated.

The three passengers huddled in the back couldn't be more contented, but the Penguin felt like being the polite host.

"Bruce, are you comfortable up there?" he asked the passenger who had stubbornly insisted on sitting up front.

"_**I'm good**_." In fact Bruce's body was going through a series of baffling temperature changes, from ice to fever-hot and then back again, but that was no reason to complain about the atmosphere. It wasn't the car, it was him.

"All right then." The Penguin settled back, wishing for a drink to calm his nerves. The entire world had seemingly gone crazy, and now he was along for the ride. He sat between two former human beings, a small man with the light slowly fading from his myopic eyes and a rapidly balding cryptophile. He felt like being especially polite after two revelations about the man in the front seat. One, that he was dying and two, that he was actually Batman.

He felt he had reacted admirably to the news, partially aided by the frailty of his former enemy. Bruce, who had always been in the best of health, was now misshapen and slightly emaciated. There was no fight left in him, and the Penguin was quite at a loss as to how he thought he was going to save the city one last time.

Bruce, with one wary eye on the driver, was scratching his front. He was no longer numb; the burnt patches of his body had an odd, tickling sensation in them, like grains of sand trickling through more sand. Scratching didn't really relieve the problem, but it soothed him mentally.

* * *

Harvey stood in the doorway of the joker's cell, gun drawn, face tight. That…thing had been eating the commish…commissioner Gordon. Now it turned to him, with a strange malformed face that looked insanely familiar.

"Alright, you oversized cup o' jello from _hell_! Against the other wall or I put ventilation holes in you!"

The thing heaved and attempted to stand up, the jello metaphor hadn't been far off. It managed after much trying, the effort sending ripples rolling across its semi-solid form. It gurgled once, shook itself, and gurgled once more.

"Ooouuurryyyyy."

Bullock clicked the hammer back.

"Reeeal **nice**, now can you say 'exit wound' you piece o-"

"Hhhccaaarrrrvvveyyyyyy." The thing rasped in commissioner Gordon's voice.

"Wh-wha?" Bullock's arm went limp, his gun clattered to the floor.

* * *

Bruce rubbed his chest absentmindedly, feeling an unearthly calm as Miss Wren turned left onto Arkham lane. While he had been having his fit, the pieces had clicked together suddenly, and he had known exactly what to do. It was like knowing the exact date of your death, you no longer had any fear, any reservations. He was only sorry that he had dragged the last three of the rogue's gallery with him. It seemed silly now, wanting to say goodbye to them just before he met his destiny. But he wanted to make sure they didn't do anything…drastic before Bruce could fix everything.

And that was just what he would do.

Fix everything.

Because he loved this place, his home, and all the people in it. No matter how cruel life was to him, he loved it dearly; and no matter how violent or crazed the people in his life were, they belonged in it.

The villains meant as much in his life as the people who supported him; they gave his life meaning, kept the balance. He hadn't really seen that until now. They were all symptoms of the same disease; they the pathogens, he an antibody.

This was why when they pulled up in front of said asylum, he was genuinely sad to see them go.

"_**Well**_." He said. "_**Here I go**_."

He got out, glancing at the three in the rearview mirror one last time before awkwardly stepping out.

He limped slightly as he climbed the stairs, his progress halted by a "Bruce, wait!"

He turned to see the portly Oswald Cobblepot coming out of the door Miss Wren held open. The cold stung Bruce's cheeks as he struggled up the stairs, tottering even with Miss Wren's arm hooked through his.

"Bruce." He panted. "There- there's still something I feel I need to say."

Bruce shook his head as far as the stuff on his neck let him. "_**You don't need to**_."

"No." the Penguin looked slightly embarrassed. "I want to."

"_**What**_?"

"Well, er, I know… you were always…necessary, and…"

"_**Just say whatever you want. Nothing really matters now**_."

"Well, I-" he swallowed. "Whatever- whatever happens, I…I didn't…hate you."

Bruce grinned, making his ear bleed again. "_**I didn't hate you either**_."

The Penguin looked slightly relieved. "Right. No-nothing personal."

Bruce nodded. "_Just business right_?"

He smiled at Miss Wren. "_**You gotta do what you gotta do**_?"

"That's to the best of my understanding, sir." Miss Wren stated in clipped tones.

He smiled. The odd couple in front of him looked at him expectantly.

"Are you sure you don't want us to come in with you?"

Bruce shook his head. "_**If I'm wrong, or if something doesn't go the way it should, I want you to get out of here**_."

"How will we know if that happens?"

"_**Trust me**_." He cast a wary glance at the building behind him. "_**You'll know**_."

* * *

The inside corridors were cool and had a strange feel to them, a second smell over the lemon disinfectant perhaps. He came to the hall preceding ward C, where two guards were peering through the small window in the door, muttering to each other in excited whispers.

"_**Excuse me**_." They both jumped, the darker-haired one drawing his stun gun.

"_**I need to get through**_."

"Unscheduled appointment? We've heard that one already." The red haired one snapped, a wary eye on Bruce.

"You ain't police, that fat cop told us to move for no one but the police." The other guard's hands were shaking. Bruce took a step forward. They both flinched.

"Stay back!"

"_**But I'm expected**_."

They both looked at him with fearful disbelief.

"_**Who's expecting you**_?"

As an answer, he slipped off the top half of his robe.

* * *

Down the long hall, past the ominously silent maniacs, Bruce wished he could go faster. One leg had much more black matter on it, and it felt abnormally heavy. It was like dragging a log.

Just before the door that took him into the final segment, a wet rasping drew his attention. The right wall had a large red splotch about eight feet off the ground that trailed sloppily to the ground and a body.

Bruce hobbled over to it, turning it over and coming face to face with the Joker.

He was in even worse shape than Bruce himself was. One eye was missing, half his face was shredded pulp. His arms stuck out at odd angles from the body, and one leg was gone below the knee. It didn't look like it had been bitten, more like sucked off.

"_**Joker**_?"

He opened his one eye, the pupil a cloudy lavender. Bruce realized with a little jolt that he was probably blind.

"Batshy?" he coughed and spat a molar. "Sho good ta shee ya'!" He gave a broken version of his insane laughter.

"Prinshe charming comesh riding up on his hobby horshe. I hate to tell you thish, batsh, but your timing shtinks."

"_**Joker, what happened**_?"

The clown prince of crime coughed and lolled his head, the effort to speak was becoming greater and greater.

"I wash jusht having a little shnooze, dreaming about nurse Shandy's legsh and all the shudden…" he trailed off and shivered.

A repulsive sort of pity filled Bruce. "_**What**_?"

"…I …I don't know." A look of pathetic confusion crossed his face. "F-felt like the backa'my head got yanked out…and sh…something started pullin' my soul out."

Bruce sighed and cradled the Joker's head. The Joker brightened up suddenly.

"Hey bats, what do you get when you cross a corpse with a watermelon?"

"_**I couldn't know**_."

"M-m…" the lid over his "good" eye slid halfway shut, and Bruce felt for a pulse that wasn't there anymore.

He carefully laid Joker's head down and folded his arms on his chest.

"_**Goodnight, sweet prince**_." He said, because it seemed appropriate.

* * *

The hall was unseasonably warm, and what inmates were left were cowering in corners, under beds, whatever was farthest from cell 2501.

The door was open, and Harvey was slumped in the doorway, clutching his chest. He had an expression of absolute terror on his face.

Bruce stooped to look clicking his tongue.

"_**I didn't think manslaughter was your thing. But I suppose you not being human, we'll have to think of another sentence. I don't think bars could hold you, could they**_?" he addressed the slumped figure in the middle of the room.

Squelching, It raised Its head, revealing the swollen, distended face of Nihil Ibi.

"_**You can only get a semblance of humanity, just enough to blend in until it's too late, hunh? You're always just on the edge of perception; people don't pay attention to you, that's why you can move so freely. You wanted to look like an affluent businessman and you did, fooled quite a few people. I wondered why my secretary would just let you walk in. Have the right attitude and look, nobody cares**_."

The Thing heaved and put gelatinous hands to his face.

"_**That was how you got most of your victims, but I guess I don't really know why**_."

"Why?" It gurgled in his voice.

"_**Why feed on people like…well, him**_?" he waved his head in the Joker's direction.

"Good…food…thought…no one…"

"_**Cared? Trust me, that's not true. Even a city like Gotham has an ecosystem, and an ecosystem needs balance. People, people like the Joker or that poor private eye you took out, have a purpose, or they wouldn't be there. You can't just take them out without ruining the whole equation**_."

"But you…" it burped wetly, but not from its mouth. "You said yourself that you wanted it to stop, you couldn't help them."

"_**When did I ever say th**_…" he looked down at his body.

"_**You can hear me think, can't you**_?" he stated calmly.

"Y...yes."

* * *

A truckload of Gotham's finest left the police station at breakneck speed, the SWAT van so close behind they were nearly in front. After a fragmented call from Harvey bullock, Renée Montoya sprang into action. She got everyone off the beat and called the boys in flak jackets, knowing Gordon would've done the same. She was buckling her armor when the boy with the two-way turned to her.

"Montoya, call from inside. One of the security guards. Says another person went inside, guy with black hair. 30-40."

Montoya swore at a wayward strap. "He say anything?"

"He says he said 'I'm expected' and opened his shirt. Get this: he was a burn victim, or something, because when he flashed 'em, his body was all scarred and patchy. What should I tell 'em?"

"Tell them," She sighed. "Tell them we're on our way."

* * *

"My…matter is not solid. When I attacked, I left some of me on those that escaped. That was how I tracked them. They all had different adverse reactions to it. The Nygma man's body developed lymphatic cancer in response. You're the only one to survive so much contact with me."

"_And__** multiple attacks. You must be losing your touch**_."

The Thing shuddered weakly. "After…after I claimed the one in the bathroom, something happened to me. I think… part of me still had some of the other's matter…it…hurt."

Bruce clicked his tongue. "_**And it just got worse, didn't it**_?"

The Thing gazed at him. "Yes. Suddenly I couldn't digest much of anything, but I was still so hungry. It…wasn't like my other food. I could catch as many of them I wanted and eat them, they would be back again in no time at all."

The Thing looked morosely down at the ground. "This place hasn't helped; everyone so full of thought, all emotions screaming at me through space. Physical distance doesn't matter, I'm always too close."

Bruce nodded. "_**Where do you come from**_?"

"I come from a vacuum. I come from nothing. I am nothing. I am to eat the things that try to fill the void with themselves, with those they represent. I kill thought. I produce oblivion."

"_**You eat ideas**_?"

"I eat them as they die out from thought, they are reborn instantly. I was once…happy." The thing chuckled sadly. "I was happy before I knew what happy was, Mr. Wayne. Now that I know what emotions are, I wish for oblivion again."

"_**Why did you come here**_?"

"I wanted…I wanted what is yours."

"_**Life**_?"

It nodded.

* * *

Both vans took the corner with squealing tires, nearly running into the parked limousine of the Penguin.

As the policemen piled out, the three villains looked up uninterestedly from their perch on the steps. The Penguin set a new record for being the only person to look bored as Renée Montoya pointed the barrel of the gun right between his eyes.

"I want answers!" she snarled.

The Penguin hmphed and laid down his hand of cards.

"Well then." He said, polishing his monocle. "That makes two of us."

* * *

Bruce felt safe enough now to walk forward. The Thing was now incapable of standing up.

"_**You really aren't meant to exist, though, are you? A concept can't really have a physical body, a thought shouldn't feel pain**_."

"It worked." It whispered in Tetch's voice. "It worked for a time."

"_**But people can't live in absolutes, life isn't in black in white. You need that to survive, but none of us can furnish that for you**_."

The Thing gulped and looked up at him, palms upraised. Its face was a mix of Gordon's and Alfred's, in an attempt to garner sympathy.

"I tried. I tried to start slow. I started as a spot in the eye of a man who wanted absolution in his life. I became bigger as he grew stronger-"

"_**But he died, didn't he? He starved at a banquet because he needed exceptions. He wanted things to be black and white, but he couldn't live with that reality. That applies even more so to the people you devoured here**_."

"How?" it coughed. "How? They all wanted it so badly-"

"_**But need and want are two different things. The Hatter wanted to control other people, all he really needed was security. The Scarecrow wanted nothing but fear, he really needed to be recognized for his intelligence. It goes on and on like that, all of these people wanted to have lives, but no one would treat them like human beings because they didn't know how. And if it hadn't been them, specifically, there would have been others**_."

"That doesn't make it right! They shouldn't have the freedom to do the things they do!"

"_**But if you look at them like that, you completely block out the other sides. Half of Arnold Wesker is a violent psychopath, but the other half is a sweet man who only wanted to be liked. No person is entirely one thing, they are much to many**_."

* * *

Wesker's head thumped down on the hood, nose bleeding profusely, in hysterics.

"N-n-no! Mr. Scarface!" They had taken his bundle when they handcuffed him. The other two villains sat on the steps, glaring balefully at the overzealous officer.

"For the love of god, just give him the doll!" Nygma hollered. "It's his security…thing."

He was pistol-whipped for his trouble.

"Unnecessary force! I'm calling police brutality!" the Penguin shouted. Montoya grabbed a handful of his hair and twisted his head back to look at her.

"I'm going to ask you this once and only once. _Where_ is commissioner Gordon?"

The Penguin grimaced in pain. "My dear lady, where the hell do you think he is?"

* * *

The Thing rocked pitiably back and forth. "I'm ill."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. "_**Well, that's to be expected. You ate a **__lot_."

The Thing crept closer.

"Are you here to kill me?"

He sighed. "_**That's the thing. Technically, you're not alive, so how can I take away what you don't have**_?"

It sniffed. "I thought you would know."

"_**I hate to tell you this, we don't really 'know' anything. Hell, I found you through a bunch of half-baked ideas and gut impulses that turned out to be right**_."

It looked at him with eyes that were too full. "What do you think?"

"_**I have a feeling you're the only one who can undo all of this**_."

* * *

The SWAT team and officers barged past the two security guards now situated behind the desk.

"Hey, I.D.'s please!" the red-haired one shouted.

"Shut up, Rick." Snapped Derleth.

"But they're-"

"I don't care anymore. I just don't." they both faced forward, waiting.

* * *

"_**You're still holding to life, even now, when you have nothing left. You have to let it go and go back to where you came from**_."

"But I don't-"

"_**Yes, you do. Deep down, you know. And I think you need to remember how, right now**_."

It gazed at him almost lovingly. "I'm cold."

Bruce smiled and started to bend down.

The throng of officers got to the door of the cell just in time to see the one figure bending over the other.

"FREEZE!!!" roared Montoya, and an overenthusiastic young deputy fired. The bullet made its way directly to the two…

* * *

A man with lymphatic cancer stirs uneasily…

* * *

A sewer under Gotham is overflowing…

* * *

The smoldering wreckage of the mansion goes out after three days of burning…

* * *

A dark man keeled over his keyboard picks his head up and rubs his left eye.

"All right, Neal?" a coworker calls to him.

* * *

The nurse in Arkham's infirmary was puzzled.

"Where could they all have come from, so suddenly?" She whispered to the on-duty doctor. "Some of them weren't even conscious. So many, where?"

The doctor was very stiff and proud. "We aren't really to question the police commissioner, nurse, especially when we are so low in rank here. Just get more gauze and be quiet!"

She trotted off resentfully, nearly running into Oswald Cobblepot dabbing a gash on his forehead daintily with his handkerchief. The severe-looking young woman hovering over him made a fist, but the Penguin waved her away.

Gordon sat on one of the infirmary beds, his hand on Harvey's shoulder.

"…and we're going to start jogging regularly, Harvey. I don't want a repeat of this behavior."

"Whatever you say, commish'." Harvey turned to Montoya and rolled his eyes, making her giggle.

The beds were crowded with a wide variety of people, some of whom hadn't been seen in months, so those that could stand stood. Except for two men who sat in a far corner of the room, hunched over a small table on which a chess game was being played. The one with red hair glanced up at the crowd before returning his gaze to his pieces. After a moment of thought, he took the white bishop.

"Such an odd excitement, isn't it? You'd think we've been miraculously raised from the dead."

His companion, a shorter man with hair like hay thatch, was somberly quiet.

"Of course," Crane chuckled, "When we're away for too long, the staff misses us. Nothing like shattering a man's psyche, eh?"

He covered the other's hand warmly with his own. This finally incited a reaction. Jervis met Crane's eyes shyly and smiled.

* * *

Bruce woke up, and immediately regretted it. This was like the mother of all hangovers, it was so developed it had teeth and limbs. He was so thirsty it hurt, everything hurt. Then he remembered what preceded it and really regretted waking.

He appeared to be in his own room, unless hell had his great grandfather's dueling pistols on the end table. What if it hadn't worked the way he thought it would? What if?...

He panicked and started to rise, ignoring the screams of agony coming from his muscles. He was suddenly lit by a small ray of sun, as if someone were holding a curtain partially open just enough so that he could see the person in bed.

He squinted at the figure at the window. "_**Alfred**_?"

"Master Bruce."

"_Alfred_!"

"Go back to bed."

* * *

_Author's Note: whew, finally done. Kinda feels weird, being done with my longest story to date. I was watching the trial episode of the animated series, I drew some inspiration from that. Batman isn't really a merciless crime fighter, nor is he Mr. touchy-feely(although I think I made him a little more touchy-feely in this one). I hope the ending doesn't feel too Deus ex Machina, I was planning it from the beginning. I never found the end of Dead Reckoning(dammit) but I'll keep looking. Be seeing you._


End file.
